


that's the spirit

by krelboyne



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Eddie is a ghost, Fix-It of Sorts, GHOST PUNS, Ghost Eddie Kaspbrak, IT Chapter Two Fix-It, M/M, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Reddie, Reddie fix-it, Richie is in love, a lot of ghost puns tbh, but he's also stubborn, richie freaks out, richie gets a second chance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24425695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krelboyne/pseuds/krelboyne
Summary: Eddie, funnily enough, was by the counter, waiting patiently as the kettle grew more and more furious and eventuallyclicked. Eddie, who was supposed to be dead, his body rotting somewhere beneath Derry, was standing in his kitchen. Making fuckingtea.[a romantic ghost story full of dark humour AND angst, because why not? think IT meets Beetlejuice meets Ghost. eddie is back and he's not going anywhere. richie thinks he's losing his mind. but eddie is here for a reason]
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 24
Kudos: 86





	1. TIME FLIES WHEN YOU'RE...

**PROLOGUE**

It should have been easy to leave Derry. It should have been easy to pack his shit up and run - just as he had wanted to do the minute he’d arrived there. But nothing felt easy any more. Richie sat defeated on the edge of the rented bed, staring out of the grubby window at grey nothingness, his bag - half-packed - by his feet.

On the bed, a shirt one size too small for him lay flat and uncreased; pristine condition, despite having been tucked away inside a suitcase. It wasn’t Richie’s. It was Eddie’s, and Richie had taken it. Only Bev knew. She was the one taking care of Eddie’s belongings. Richie didn’t know much more about the situation. Didn’t know if anybody had told Eddie’s wife, or how they’d explain it all if they did. He was almost sure Bev had tried to talk about Eddie and Myra out of earshot, anyway. 

Perhaps it was selfish, to mourn a man he’d forgotten about for years so deeply, and to feel such spite towards the woman that man had spent the better part of his life with. But Richie couldn’t help feeling so angry, so jealous. He wanted to pack his car with Eddie’s things and drive away. But Bev had already packed his stuff into her car, and Richie was left with this shirt. Clean and unworn, it somehow still smelled of Eddie. His warmth, his tidiness. 

It was a tear that startled Richie. It fell, seemingly out of nowhere, and made his cheek wet. He rose to his feet.

It was time to leave Derry. 

-

“You’re only leaving Derry, Richie,” Bev had spoken to him so softly that morning, alone in his room. “You’re not leaving Eddie behind. He’s still with all of us. Especially you.” She placed a hand on his chest, and he realised the implication: _he’s in our hearts._

 _No, Bev._ Richie had wanted to say. _Eddie’s not really in our hearts though, is he? Our memories of him, sure - but his body? No. His body is rotting somewhere beneath Derry and we’re all on our merry way out of this fucking dead-end town, leaving our friend behind…_

But he stayed quiet and kissed her forehead instead. There was no need to cause more hurt. 

The Losers said their goodbyes. Made promises to stay in touch. Richie too, though he had his doubts. 

He wasn’t in a rush to get home. There was nothing for him there, and had there ever been? Hadn’t there been a hole in his chest and a hole in his life as far back as he could recall? One that had, briefly and temporarily, been filled upon the returning memories of the Losers and the one he had loved the most. 

It was cruel, Richie thought to himself as he closed his eyes, how brutally things had been pulled from beneath his feet. 

_Here’s a taste of pure gold, Richie,_ the World had purred, coaxing him over with a finger. _Come over here and remember how it feels to love. To be loved. What it could be like to find happiness. Come on, Richie. Take a slice!_

Richie had tentatively reached out, and then the World had turned cold and spun away from him, just as he had started to trust its word. Richie had been propelled into another galaxy; one full of shadow and cold. Back to where he’d started. 

_Fuck you, World._

-

Eddie Kaspbrak was Richie’s only love. 

Funny, how things work. He’d forgotten the man for a good twenty something years or so, but as soon as he had answered that unanticipated phone call, ghosts of feelings and whispers of memories had come back so fast and hard-hitting, it felt like being kicked in the gut over and over and over and over and…

# CHAPTER 1 - TIME FLIES WHEN YOU’RE ~~HAVING FUN~~

# 

A loud buzz chattered against the bedside table and Richie turned on the mattress, groggy. 

Another buzz. He grunted at the sound as he threw an arm out of the duvet, blindly searching the bedside table for his glasses first, before locating his cell phone. Somehow, he managed to push himself up into a position that just about passed for sitting, and slipped on his glasses.

The first thing Richie noticed with reluctant eyes was how bright his room was. The curtains were, of course, closed. Were they ever open lately? He couldn’t remember the last time. Nevertheless, the room was bright and the sounds from beyond his window signalled afternoon. 

The second thing Richie noticed, which only dawned on him as a secondary thought (but when it _did_ dawn on him, it came full-force), was that he had a splitting headache. His mouth was as dry as the desert and, suddenly, water was the only thing that mattered to him. Water _and_ painkillers. He completely forgot about his phone, despite it being the thing that had stirred him awake, and stomped out of his room towards the kitchen. Moments later, he was chugging water from a glass and the only thought that swam around his aching head came in the voice of Frankenstein’s monster: _Headache, bad… Pills, gooood! Pills, gooood!_

With breakfast out of the way - and what a familiar breakfast water and painkillers had become over the last year - Richie figured he could use more sleep for two seriously convincing reasons. Number one: he was on the brink of a migraine, so bed was naturally the only solution. Number two: what the fuck was there to get up for anyway? 

Back in his bedroom, he remembered why he’d even got out of bed in the first place. Rudely awoken by his buzzing phone. Probably notifying him of a junk text-message from one of the many takeaway restaurants he placed orders from. Fifteen percent off when you spend such-and-such. All that good shit that reminded him of his lack of communication with actual human beings. 

But, oh. That wasn’t quite true, was it? 

Because he always had people checking up on him. The Losers - though he realised it was only him still feeling like a genuine loser - never failed to uphold the responsibilities of good friends looking out for a friend who was feeling not-so-good, but their efforts, for the most part, were wasted. If it was a good day for Richie, he’d shoot back a reply or two. But good days were rare and many messages went unanswered, sometimes even unread, and phone calls, as a standard rule, were always ignored. Something was different about today though, because his phone told him he had three missed calls and four text messages. It should have been startling, should have stirred something inside him that any ordinary person would experience - _shit, has someone died?!, what the hell have I missed?,_ etc. - but it barely concerned him and he even contemplated switching his cell off to save it bothering him again. 

He didn’t. Instead, he investigated the fuss. 

**Missed Calls**

**Bev (2)**  
**Mike (1)**

No voicemail had been left, so he surmised it mustn’t be important. 

Perhaps it wasn’t important but, despite his prior unconcern, his stomach plunged now and he felt a strange anxiety in the pit of his chest. He knew he was reluctant to read the unopened messages but he couldn’t quite fathom why. With a shaking hand that he didn’t quite acknowledge, Richie opened his text messages. 

**Mike**  
Hey Rich. Just thought I’d check up on you today. Call me back when you get a minute. 

**Bev**  
Richie, I know you’ve been avoiding us, but please pick up the phone today. Just let us know you’re alright. xxx

 **Ben**  
Hey, man. Thinking about you today. Thinking about all you guys and everything that happened. Shoot me a message if you feel like talking. Would appreciate hearing from you. x 

**Bill**  
Richie! Noticed you’re not active on the group message. How are you? Today is hard. Please get in touch. 

Was this some sort of intervention? Annual meeting of the Losers Club? Judging by the timestamps of the messages, the Losers had all thought about Richie more or less in the same moment. That should have been surprising, but it wasn’t. Stranger things had happened. Really fucking strange shit had happened, so this was pretty ordinary. They were, after all, all bound by something both beautiful and hideous. They’d be connected forever. 

But what was with the sudden urgency? Bill was right; he hadn’t been active on the group chat that God knows who had set up. He’d muted those messages a while back, and had no idea what had been said since. Respectively, they’d all reached out to him over the last several months, but never at the same time like this. At the same time, as though it meant something. 

_Well, it’s not my fucking birthday,_ Richie thought to himself as he sat on the edge of the bed. 

And then it hit him. The force it hit with was so sudden, his stomach lurched and he got to his feet, feeling as though the safest place to be was in the bathroom with his head over the basin. And that’s where he ended up, gripping the sink in the bathroom - though, thankfully, no vomit was expelled - hanging on for dear life as his weak knees trembled. 

_Oh,_ he thought distantly, _that’s why everyone wants to hear from me today. That’s why I have this fucking hangover._

He’d been drinking last night. Heavily. Somehow he had forgotten, but it all made sense now. The group all getting in touch with him, the terrible headache and the lurking depression, never fully absent, even on his good days. 

It had been a year since Eddie’s death. One year. Right down to the day. And he had been drinking last night to forget everything about it. 

It was naive of him to believe that drink would work. Of course, his hangover and lingering drunkenness of the early morning really _had_ made him forget, but only temporarily. He’d tried drinking to forget before, but it never really worked. It was always a temporary solution. It was just too bad that the drink itself wasn’t temporary - it had become a bit of a habit, though he’d never admit it. Still, the memories resurfaced and the nightmares returned. Dammit, why couldn’t they forget about all this shit like they did the first time? It was probably cruel to think that way and he scolded himself for it, but he knew it would hurt way less if he could just forget. Forget about IT, forget about the Losers. And Eddie. Especially Eddie. He wish he could forget him. Him and their last moments together. A year to this day and it was all still so fucking raw. 

As the saying goes, time flies when you’re having fun. He figured he’d quite like to revise that phrase: _time flies when you’re feeling numb_ was far more pertinent in his case. Time really had flown by; time had jumped on a space shuttle and pierced a hole through Mars. It seemed strange to think about it now, considering he really couldn’t place a finger on what he’d been doing all this time. Time should have dragged. A year alone, after the events in Derry, with only glass bottles, take-out cartons and cigarettes to keep him company, time should have slowed down to a painful never-ending grind. But it hadn’t. Richie couldn’t believe that it had been a year since Eddie but after a reluctant glance at the date displayed on his lock screen, he had to believe. 

In the horrible year that followed the Great Disaster of Derry, Richie hadn’t worked. He hadn’t really even _thought_ about work, let alone considered truly getting up on stage again. He didn’t have the energy nor the will to even sit with his manager and discuss potential plans for the future - or to answer his phone every once in a while to confirm he is, in fact, still alive. Richie preferred dealing with this business via good ol’ email. He’d shot several emails to his manager over the year, just to keep him off his back, but he knew it wouldn’t hold up forever. He had explained that he was dealing with a loss in the family for two fundamental reasons: grieving was the only excuse society would accept as justifiable unemployment or temporary break from employment, and, he had used the term ‘family loss’ because that was simply easier than explaining he had lost the love of his life. It was nobody else’s business, certainly not his manager’s business, and it was, more simply, too painful to construct into concrete words because that would be accepting it. It was still a truth he couldn’t swallow, no matter how small and dissoluble the pill. 

To cut a long story short, Richie had spent the last year doing fuck-all. Well, nothing of any importance, anyway. He wasn’t even sure he’d been grieving properly. There are five or seven stages of grief, depending on which psychologist you asked, and it seemed that he’d spent the full year stuck in the first: shock (or maybe denial - depending on which psychologist you asked). Everybody grieved differently apparently, yet this ‘grief process’ people spoke of still had some structure. Richie doubted there’d ever be structure to his mourning. There were layers he hadn’t yet stripped away. Somewhere deep inside him, the very core of him, was a tangled mass of utter _mess_ that felt everything. Surrounding that was a hard shell of complete numbness. Then, there was the outer - the part of him that wouldn’t even admit he was feeling numb. The part that was asleep and needed a wake-up call. The part that needed to open its eyes, stretch its arms and proclaim _“something isn’t right here”._

Richie fell back, head into the pillows like they were clouds. He lay with a sunken heart, contemplating how to approach the messages and missed calls from the Losers. He knew that any decent person wouldn’t leave them hanging. He knew he ought to get in touch with them, even if he didn’t feel compelled to. He gripped his phone and found the long-forgotten group chat he’d muted. Richie opened it up and saw that his friends used it regularly to check up on each other. One message here in the group chat would be easier than answering everybody individually, and certainly far easier than answering any more calls that may come through if he didn’t make a virtual appearance soon. But what was he supposed to say? That he was good, fine, everything was fucking a-okay? He’d be lying and they’d know it. But the last thing he wanted or needed was some painful pity-party via satellite on his behalf. What he really wanted was to be left alone. Alone was good. He was used to alone. Today would be a shit day - even worse than every other - and he felt in no mood to do anything other than sleep with his fingers crossed, wishing for dreamless rest with no thoughts of Eddie and the rest of that Derry nightmare that took place exactly one year ago. 

-

Richie had been granted one of his wishes: he’d had a perfectly dream-free sleep and although he did remember Derry as soon as he woke up, his dreams had not been saturated by thoughts of Eddie and for that, he was grateful. 

He soon found, however, that his other wish - to be left alone - would not come true. Not today. And not for some time after. 

\- 

Late afternoon and Richie finally decided to drop the Losers a line. 

_Hey guys. Thanks for the messages. I’m good. Has it really been a year already? Keeping busy. xo_

“You’re a fucking liar, man,” Richie told himself as he hit the ‘send’ button and his words popped into the group chat.

 _Still,_ he thought, _it’s better than telling them you’ve been drinking every day just to get by. It’s better than telling them that, deep down, you don’t want to exist any more._

And with that thought, Richie scraped himself out of his tomb and yawned all the way into the kitchen. He warmed up leftovers from yesterday and scoffed them down before grabbing a beer from the fridge. Vaguely, he was aware that this time last year, he was shitting himself over a fucking supernatural clown and everything was falling apart, but he was still happier than now, because he had been with his people and, more importantly, his _person._ But hours from now, a year ago, in a crummy little town that was the embodiment of sheer evil - both supernaturally and humanly - his person would be taking his final breath.

-

Richie had to get out of the house, as much as he didn’t want to. 

A stroll to the grocery store would be sufficient enough, and productive too. There was barely a crumb of nutritious food in his apartment now and the boxes of pizza rolls in his freezer didn’t count. It was just getting silly, even for someone who’d had a great dip in their appetite. 

The sun was out, though he only felt doom and gloom on the inside. Inside, there was a fucking storm raging - a storm that hadn’t stopped since his last visit to Derry - and the bright sky above him seemed to be mocking him. Richie wiped the soft sheen of sweat that had collected above his brow and walked on, eyes fixed on his shoes the entire journey. 

It was cooler in the store but, as relieved as he was to step out of the sun, Richie didn’t hang about. He piled what he needed into a basket and was soon swiping his card at the checkout. 

_Home,_ Richie thought as he passed the crowds on the street, _I just wanna be home._

\- 

Home at last, Richie locked the door behind him. It had become a habit really. A habit that didn’t seem too important in the grand scheme of things, but still had a lot to say. Was he afraid? A little bit. What was he scared of? IT? Maybe. But IT was dead, and IT would never leave Derry, even if IT was still alive. And even if IT was still alive and took a road trip from Derry to California just to come for Richie, would a locked door stand in IT’s way? Fuck no. But there was still a sense of security to it. And it wasn’t all about IT. It was about Richie’s reluctance to rejoin the outside world; the world beyond his own four walls and the prison of his mind.

Richie was sweating but the apartment was cool. Beads of sweat formed at his hairline and on the back of his neck. A cold fucking drink. That’s what he needed. Grocery bags in hand, Richie headed towards the kitchen to put the food away. 

A distinct rustling from the kitchen stopped Richie dead in his tracks. 

Several things raced through Richie’s mind, ranging from rats to burglars to Pennywise… but he was so damn sure he’d locked up earlier before leaving, and pretty certain he’d just unlocked the door to come back in. Nothing was broken. No obvious signs of intrusion. Had someone climbed through a window? Surely not. His apartment sat on one of the higher floors… Unless he was dealing with Spiderman, it made no sense. 

With some degree of fear but far more curiosity, Richie walked with deft steps into the kitchen and froze. 

His heart turned to lead in his chest and although he couldn’t quite grasp any logical thought in this moment, Richie was very aware of how numb he’d become. Someone was standing in front of the refrigerator, rummaging around in the freezer as though they were choosing what they wanted for dinner. The figure didn’t even have to turn around for Richie to know who it was… 

It was Eddie. 

But Eddie was dead, and that was just about the only thing Richie was sure of these days. 

But he couldn’t deny his eyes. Eddie was right in front of him. 

No, not _Eddie._ Eddie was dead. Buried beneath Derry.

So - who?

Zombie Eddie. Eddie the Ghost. _Dead Eds._

A shiver shot through Richie’s body. It felt like lightning. 

“Oh, fuck,” Richie heard himself say, though his voice came from somewhere far away, lost in some other dimension. He was only vaguely aware of the grocery bags slipping from his hands, cartons of milk and orange juice spraying across the floor. “Oh, shit. Oh, Jesus!” 

His dead best friend whirled around so suddenly it snatched Richie’s breath right from him. Eddie Kaspbrak stood before him, an accusatory look of annoyance plastered across his face and a box of Totino’s in his hand. “Fucking pizza rolls. Is this the shit you’re living on, Richie?”


	2. THE KITCHEN SEANCE

# CHAPTER 2 - THE KITCHEN SEANCE

Richie was floating. His mind and body had detached themselves from one another. He was only vaguely aware that he was still moving, but apart from that, there were no coherent thoughts swimming around in his brain.

All he knew was panic.

He backed away from his dead friend with such sudden effort and speed he slipped on the spilled juice and went sliding backwards, somehow managing to maintain some form of balance and avoiding a hard smack against the kitchen floor. His mouth was slack, hanging open in terror and disbelief at what he was seeing and hearing.

Meanwhile, Eddie moved closer.

“No,” Richie heard someone say, not realising that the words were falling from his own lips. “Go away. Stay away from me.” His voice was weak and his words were shallow. There was no fight to his tone. His words slipped from the tip of his tongue with a quiet numbness that could only escape from someone who was dealing with something so frightening, so unbelievable. Yet, simultaneously, there was nothing remotely frightening about Eddie. There had never been and even now, as he stood before Richie, a walking corpse, he lacked horror and fright. There was nothing gory about him either. No tell-tale sign of his death or injuries. He was clean, and perfect. Just your every-day-Eds.

But he was still dead, and this was still impossible, so Richie continued to scramble away from Eddie until he was out of the kitchen and down the hall, now turning on his heel to see where he was going. He rushed to his bedroom, threw open the door and ran for his bed like a scared child. Realistically, somewhere in the very back room of his scrambled brain, Richie knew that his duvet was no form of true protection, but he hid beneath it anyway.

There was silence for quite some time. It was only when Richie’s make-shift fort began to run out of oxygen that he dared lift the sheet from around him. Hesitantly, one hand left the safety of his duvet first. He half-heartedly scoped the immediate area around him with a wave of his hand, praying to God it wouldn’t fall on anything. Anything being Eddie. It dawned on him, then, that he had never been so reluctant to see his Eds before. When his hand found nothing, he slowly pulled the cover from the top of his head, tousling his hair in the process, and was faced with his empty bedroom.

He sat, his body coming down from the unexpected fear and rush of adrenaline. His hands were trembling, but Richie didn’t notice. The room around him and the apartment beyond had never sounded so silent and had never looked so still. In this moment, Richie felt truly alone, and perhaps it had been the brief visit from Eddie - be it true or imaginary - that had left him feeling lonelier. Whatever just happened in the kitchen, Richie was certain it was over now. Richie was certain that it was just him in here now. No spirits, no phantoms and no Eddie. And he was also certain that it had been an hallucination. A fantastic, surreal hallucination that had been so perfectly real - but false just the same. It had been his grief checking in, letting him know that, despite how many bottles of beer he could down, he was still mourning his friend. And it was the anniversary of it all, too. He was extra fragile. Richie didn’t want to admit that, but he was. Fragile and susceptible to seeing imaginary things. He just had to get through this horrible day and things would return to normal. Whatever the fuck that was.

And then he laughed, for the first time that day and maybe even the first time that _year._ Yes, he had almost shit his pants, but he had to admit that he could have imagined worse things than ghost Eddie berating him over his junk-food diet. He could’ve seen Eddie actually _looking_ dead, all grey and rotten flesh. He could’ve been chased by zombie Eddie who was hungry for brains. Hell, he could’ve had a visit from Pennywise the fucking clown. But IT was dead, too. Just as dead as Eddie was. And none of this was real.

That was the thought that gave him a boost of confidence to leave the confines of his bedroom and clean up the mess he’d made in the kitchen. Richie was still smirking to himself over how ridiculous everything was but, when he reached the kitchen, his face dropped. There was no mess on the kitchen floor now. No spilled juice, no milk. In fact, his bag of groceries patiently sat atop the counter, waiting to be put away. It brought him both concern and comfort; such an unusual combination of feelings to experience all at once. He was, of course, concerned that what happened in the kitchen just minutes ago had felt so real but had, according to the clean floor, never happened at all. But that was a comfort too - surely - because it only reinforced the fact that he had imagined everything and he was _safe._ His home wasn’t haunted and there were no spirits coming for him.

Richie took a deep breath, tried to get his shit together, and then went over to the groceries. He began to sort through them, trying to ground himself with an ordinary task, trying to feel normal.

“What the fuck?” He muttered. The milk and juice were missing from the grocery bag.

“You’re welcome.”

A guttural ‘ugh’ escaped Richie’s lips when he spun on his heel to find Eddie standing there, arms folded across his chest, impatience gracing all his features. Richie, for once, was utterly speechless. Instead of running as he had earlier, his feet were planted firmly on the ground. He couldn’t run if he wanted to. He was face-to-face with Eddie now, and he couldn’t take his eyes away.

“I cleaned up your mess.” Eddie continued, an eyebrow raised as if waiting for a thank you. But when no thank you came, Eddie spoke into the silence again, his face softening. “Hi, Richie.”

* * *

He wasn’t sure how it happened. It all happened so fast. But somehow, Richie had been guided over to the kitchen table and pushed down into one of its accompanying chairs.

He supposed that being so fucking horrified had practically paralysed him to the spot. He couldn’t run away as Eddie approached him. But Richie’s mind had gone utterly blank in that same space of time, too. Blank with fear. Like an old television set displaying only static. Whatever was about to happen to him was out of his hands. Richie no longer had control over anything. Eddie could walk towards him with a sharp knife and he couldn’t duck out of its way.

But Eddie didn’t hurt him. Eddie ushered him along, popped him down into the chair and waited.

Richie’s mind of static gradually tuned itself into a clear picture. His eyes had been open the whole time, but now he blinked and could really see.

“Eddie,” he said, daring to stare at the man in his kitchen.

Eddie, funnily enough, was by the counter, waiting patiently as the kettle grew more and more furious and eventually _click_ ed. Eddie, who was supposed to be dead, his body rotting somewhere beneath Derry, was standing in his kitchen. Making fucking _tea._

"You’re not going crazy,” Eddie said, as if he had been reading Richie’s mind.

“I must be.” Richie responded, afraid to fully engage himself in a conversation with his dead best friend.

But he had been more than that, hadn’t he? Which is why it had hurt so damn much. Which is why it had never stopped hurting since the day he was cruelly snatched away from him.

“Well,” Eddie paused, as though he was mulling some idea over, and then: “I guess you _are_ crazy. But that’s no newsflash, huh?” And then he chuckled. _Chuckled._ Ghost-Eddie, Dead-Eddie, actually laughed and it should have been frightening, it should have shook the very core of Richie Tozier, but it was no horror flick laugh. It wasn’t the rumbling laughter of the scary monster that crawled from the closet once your lights were out. It wasn’t the crazy cackle of the evil doctor who just brought his patient back to life. It was Eddie’s laugh. Plain and simple. It was almost sweet.

“I don’t understand,” he managed to utter. He was suddenly very aware of how dry his lips were. He cast a longing glance towards the counter top, where Eddie was still preparing drinks.

Eddie stared at him as though he was talking to Richie’s impostor. “It’s pretty simple. Actually, no. No, it’s not very simple at all. Not the full story. But this part is.” He spoke with his hands, the way he always did, as though he was conducting an invisible orchestra. “I _am_ really here. I’m not _alive,_ but I’m here. You’re not having some kind of breakdown and you’re not just seeing things.”

“Ghosts are real?” Richie asked after some length of silence. It sounded stupid but he was dumbfounded. He couldn’t comprehend what was going on here, and the mental breakdown aspect was only seeming more and more likely.

Eddie scoffed. “Are you really that shocked?”

Richie mocked Eddie’s scoff and threw his own back. That simple gesture had him feeling more like himself - at least for a second - so he rolled with it. “Oh, right, I’m sorry. I’m supposed to just chill with you right now, right? Hey, dead-Eds, can I get you a beer? Why don’t you take a seat, turn on the TV? The game should be starting any second.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. It was as if they’d fallen right back into their comfortable habit. A verbal tennis match of who could outdo the other. An unspoken deal that whoever has the last word wins the golden trophy. “Oh, now you wanna talk, dickwad?”

“Charming.” Richie raised his eyebrows in an exaggerated expression of offence, as though he’d never heard that one before. “Just charming.”

“Oh, like you can talk.”

“I _can_ actually. I’m talking right now, can’t you hear me?”

Eddie exhaled deeply and slowly, and rubbed at his forehead as though he was massaging a migraine away. “Look,” he began, “all I’m saying is that, I _am_ here. You’ve got to believe me.” He brought the drinks over to the table and sat in the chair opposite Richie’s.

“How do I know I’m not just insane?”

“I don’t know how to prove that to you. This whole thing is strange for me too, Richie.”

The man across the table spoke just like Eddie. It was a battle; on the one hand, each time Richie looked at the thing across the table, it filled him with such horror and dread. The absolute fear of impossibility unfolding before his very eyes. And yet, on the other hand, Richie couldn’t tear his gaze away - didn’t want to. The thing was identical - one hundred percent identical - to the Eddie he last saw in Derry. Except, he looked more rested. There was no sign of the confrontation he’d had with Henry Bowers; face perfect and uninjured. No sign of the wound that had killed him.

Eddie circled the rim of his mug with a steady finger. “Before I can explain anything to you, you have to believe that I’m really here.” Richie began to interject, but Eddie spoke over him. “I know, I know. It’s a lot to ask. I can appreciate that. But I can’t keep talking about this until you’re listening. Really listening. If you wanna take time to think about it, you can. But I’m not leaving this house.”

“I don’t understand. This is crazy. I can’t believe I’m actually talking to you like this is fucking normal.”

“Richie.” Eddie swallowed, contemplating his next words. “You think this is crazy? After everything with IT? If all that can happen, and we know _that_ was real, then why can’t this? Why is the existence of an afterlife or the existence of spirits so bizarre, but IT could exist, and could do all of the things it did?”

Richie rose from his seat, brows furrowed. He began to pace the kitchen. There was some meaning behind the words. How could he deny that? Hadn’t he thought it was fucking crazy, the first time he’d seen Pennywise the Clown? Hadn’t he tried so fucking hard to convince himself that he was just seeing things? That all the kids who had gone missing had done just that - went missing. But IT _had_ been real. Far too real for his liking. And there had come a point - all too quickly - where he could no longer deny what was happening, but had to face it instead.

“I suppose it makes sense,” Richie said cautiously. He didn’t want to commit to anything yet, was still so afraid by what was going on.

“It does.” Eddie confirmed firmly. “It does, and it doesn’t. In our world it makes sense, Richie. Everything we’ve seen and done is still surely far more unbelievable than this.”

 _Yes and no,_ Richie thought. If IT could exist, then yes, the premise of an afterlife was surely certain. Why not? And yet… it was so hard to believe that Eddie was sitting here, in his kitchen, when his body had been left back in Derry, destined to rot underground, nothing more than another body that had wound up in the town’s sewers. Richie had, with considerable difficulty and destructive consequences, finally resigned himself to the fact that Eddie was dead, and that he’d never see him again. So, yes - somehow, it was still more difficult to comprehend the fact that Eddie Kaspbrak’s spirit was sat at his kitchen table, than to accept the horrors he’d experienced with IT.

But what harm would it do to hear Eddie out?

If he was simply crazy after all, and Eddie wasn’t here in any shape or form, then was he really losing?

He had nothing to lose. If this was some crazed hallucination conjured from a grieving mind then maybe Richie ought to cling to it with some gratitude. At least it meant seeing Eddie again. Talking to him. And fuck, what was so bad about that?

And if this _was_ really happening, then he’d only be able to find out _why_ it was happening by accepting it for one fucking second and letting Eddie talk.

Richie stopped pacing and rejoined Eddie at the table. His heart was thudding away in his chest like thunderclouds but there was more colour in his face now. He looked at Eddie, who was already watching him, and he nodded silently. He’d hear Eddie out. What else could he possibly do at this point?

But Eddie wasn’t saying anything, so he reached for his mug and sipped his tea, even though it was cold now.

“Thanks for the tea,” he said, quashing every thought that this was utterly absurd.

“You’re welcome.” Eddie answered.

A silence hung between them.

“So,” Richie cleared his throat, daring to eye the man who sat across the table. And he did so with some remaining scepticism - a _re you really my Eddie?_ “You said you needed to talk to me.” He folded his arms. “Is that why you’re here?”

Richie half expected to wake up from a dream any time soon. Either that, or to come out of some sort of trance, only to find he’s sat around a table, holding some fucked up seance.

“I think that’s why I’m here, yeah.” Eddie sounded unsure, and he fidgeted with the mug in front of him.

“You should drink your tea.” Richie prompted absently, as though telling his dead best friend to grab his cooling drink was something perfectly ordinary and mundane.

“It’s okay. I can’t drink it.”

“What?”

“I don’t eat or drink any more, Richie. I’m dead.” Eddie spoke with a level of ridicule in his voice.

“Well, excuse me.” Richie recoiled. “You made the drinks and you’re the one who came to see me. How am I supposed to know what you fucking do?”

Eddie sighed, but didn’t retort. “I can’t physically do it, but I’m also no longer compelled to. It just isn’t there. It’s no longer a need, I suppose.” He laughed softly, before continuing, “I just made myself a drink to make you feel better.”

_To make it feel normal._

“Oh.” Richie ran a hand across his face, exhausted and confused. When he dropped his hand and opened his eyes again, Eddie’s face was stony and serious.

Dead-Eds pushed his mug to one side. “We should talk now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to anyone who is reading this lmao lemme know if you like it??


	3. SOME STRONG PSYCHEDELIC SHIT

# CHAPTER 3 - SOME STRONG PSYCHEDELIC SHIT

Eddie’s face was grave - no pun intended - as he began to explain what he knew to Richie.

It wasn’t very much.

In fact, Eddie seemed almost as bewildered as Richie.

“It’s hard to describe,” Eddie was saying, as Richie was watching mystified and still semi-unbelieving, “but it was like waking up, finding yourself in a dream. Almost like floating. Aware but not totally conscious.” He scratched his neck absently, his eyebrows furrowed in utmost concentration as he tried hard to find the words. “I guess I knew I was… you know… dead.” He almost whispered the final word like it was a secret between the two of them, or as though it was something he didn’t particularly want to admit.

“Right,” Richie said lamely. There wasn’t very much he could offer to this part of the conversation. He was still scratching his head over whether this was happening or whether he was on some strong psychedelic shit.

Eddie cleared his throat. “Honestly, I couldn’t really tell you what happened next. It doesn’t even feel like it’s been a full year. Not for me. I can still remember the smell of the sewers like it was yesterday.”

“Me too,” Richie interjected. “I can still smell that place. I can still _taste_ that place. I don’t really think it’s something I’ll ever forget.” His voice was solemn, and he was reluctant to meet Eddie’s gaze.

Eddie’s ghost nodded in agreement. “But I can’t really explain it. I don’t even have it figured out myself. It’s almost like I’ve been in limbo or some shit, just waiting for this moment.”

“What moment? Scaring the shit out of me in my fucking kitchen?”

“Yeah.” Eddie tried to laugh, but neither of them found any of it funny. “I don’t know. It feels like I’m here for a reason. I mean, it’s like I’ve just been floating somewhere, only semi-aware of myself, and now I’m here, on the anniversary of my death, trying to figure this shit out.”

“So there’s no waiting room?”

“What?”

“You know, like in Beetlejuice?”

“Richie, be fucking serious.”

Richie shrugged.

Eddie asked, “are you committed to this, Richie?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you believe I’m really here? Do you wanna know why I’m here? Or are you leaving me alone with this?”

Richie exhaled a long breath and when he spoke, his voice was thick with exhaustion and impatience. “This is really surreal, Eddie. You’re gonna have to be patient with me.”

“I understand. But we have to meet in the middle. I can’t sit here and wait for you to come to terms with this. It’s fucked up for me too. I’m fucking dead. Do you think I’m happy about that?”

“Obviously not.”

“Yeah, you’re right, I’m not. But if I have to be fucking dead, I don’t know why I’ve been in this weird limbo for a whole year, just to wind up here in your apartment.”

Richie quickly became defensive. He wasn’t sure why he felt so offended by Eddie’s words, but it felt like an attack. “What the fuck?” He got to his feet. He didn’t want to sit at the stupid table with a stupid mug of cold tea in front of him anyway. “I’m so _sorry_ you have to be here with me, Eddie. Seriously. I’m sorry about that. My bad.” A warm flush crept up the side of his neck. “Do you think I want you here with me?” _Yes, I do. I really do._ “After all this fucking time of nothing?” _Absolutely. “_ Do you think I’m happy to find my apartment is fucking haunted?” _If it’s you haunting me, I’m over the fucking moon._

“Richie,” Eddie said, sounding helpless, “I didn’t mean it like that. I just need you to be serious. I’m freaking out too! What I mean is, I don’t know why I haven’t been anywhere else this whole time. Like, is there a true afterlife? Where do I go from here? Why am I here?”

Eddie covered his eyes with his hands and that’s when Richie cooled down.

He’d heard that same panic many times. That familiar fast-paced worry. And every time he heard it, Richie felt some innate need to protect or comfort the owner of those concerns. He had always been there for Eddie, had always tried hard to reassure him when necessary. And he felt it now, too. He felt _bad._ If all of this wasn’t just some crazy dream, then Eddie was dead but still here, and he didn’t know why. Eddie had been hanging around in limbo for a good year, no genuine rest or peace, only to wake up in Richie Tozier’s apartment with literally no idea _why,_ and no idea of what was supposed to happen next.

It wasn’t really convenient for either of them.

“It’s okay,” Richie wandered back to the table and sat down. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I just wish I knew why I was here.” Eddie’s voice was muffled beneath his hands.

“You really have no inkling? Nobody told you what you were supposed to do next?”

Eddie reappeared from behind his hands with a look of utter incredulity written all over his face. “No, Richie. God didn’t come and greet me. No fucking angels told me what to do either.” Sarcasm was prevalent in his voice, and he didn’t try to hide it.

“Okay. What about Satan?”

“Fuck you, Richie.” Eddie got to his feet, grabbed his untouched mug of tea and stormed away to the kitchen sink. He poured the cold drink down the drain and proceeded to wash the mug.

“I’m sorry,” Richie drawled from where he sat. “I couldn’t help myself.”

“You never can help yourself, can you?” He propped the mug on the draining board to dry and then forced himself to face Richie. It looked like it took an immense amount of effort. “But I don’t find it fucking funny. I really don’t. Not right now. We can joke later when we figure this shit out, jackass.”

“Alright, alright.” Richie rubbed his tired eyes beneath his glasses. God, he needed some fucking sleep. “Well, serious question: are you sure there’s absolutely _nothing_ you know about all of this?”

Eddie was uncharacteristically silent for what felt like several minutes. It was a long time anyway, and during this time, Richie had almost nodded off at the table. His head snapped up when Eddie spoke again.

“I guess there’s something. But it’s difficult to explain because it’s not really a _fact._ It’s more of a _feeling._ ”

“Okay?”

“Except it’s more than a feeling.”

“What do you mean?”

Eddie paced over to the table and returned to his seat. He was looking down at his hands. “It doesn’t just feel like a gut-instinct. It almost feels like truth. Like a certainty. I’ve never felt something so strongly before. Two things, Richie.” He sighed, breath shaky. “One: I feel like I’m here for a _reason._ As though there’s some sort of mission to complete or something unfinished that I need to address. I haven’t been ordered or told by anyone, but it’s like a tugging sensation inside of me. I know I’m here for something. And two: I know I won’t be here forever.”

Richie’s thoughts had immediately stormed his brain, rapid and unrelenting. _Here for a reason, unfinished business, here to address something, here on a mission._ Yeah, there were certainly things on his part that had been left unsaid; things that had hit him promptly, like a fast train, after Eddie’s death. He would have done anything in his power to turn back time, just to tell Eddie. Was that why Eddie was here? But now he was face-to-face with Eddie again, he couldn’t imagine allowing those words to flow.

Love is a funny little thing.

But his hurtling thoughts came to a sudden halt at Eddie’s last words. “What? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I’m dead. I can’t possibly stay here forever. Not here in your apartment, and not _here,_ on Earth.”

“But you’re here now.”

“Right. But like I said, I know it’s not permanent, because I feel it inside.”

“But you don’t _know_ that.”

“I mean, technically you’re right. I don’t know it for certain, but it almost feels like I do. My mom never came to visit me after she passed, and she certainly would’ve if she could’ve, so she _clearly_ isn’t still here, among you living folk.”

Richie scoffed. “'You living folk'. Eds, you sound like a professional ghost.”

Eddie shrugged and waved Richie’s comment off. “But, do you see what I’m saying? I don’t belong here.”

 _You do,_ Richie nearly blurted out. _You belong here. On Earth. And right here, too, in my apartment, at my kitchen table. You belong with me._

The sudden prospect of accepting undead-Eds into his life, just to eventually say goodbye for the second time, was unfathomable. Richie knew that he couldn’t handle it. He hadn’t dealt well with it the first time - was still dealing with the consequences, in fact. A second time would surely kill him.

Richie just shook his head, at a loss for words.

“I have a feeling that I’ll only be able to move on when I’ve completed this mission.” Eddie leaned back in his chair, stared up at the ceiling. “I just don’t know what is I need to do, Rich.”

* * *

An hour or so later, Richie was sat in front of the TV, sharing his sofa with a zombie.

It’s amazing, how things just sort of happen.

When he woke up this morning, the biggest thing on his to-do list had been grocery shopping. Now, he was racking his brains trying to figure out why his dead best friend may be stuck here with him.

But it was pretty simple. Wasn’t it?

Richie had an idea. He could be _wrong,_ but it was still an idea.

He just wasn’t in the place to share it with Eddie. And so he acted clueless.

“You don’t really watch this shit every day, do you?” Eddie commented, though his eyes were stuck to the television screen as if glued there.

“Absolutely, but you seem to be enjoying it too.”

“Wouldn’t say I’m _enjoying_ it.”

“You’re practically immersed.”

“Shh,” Eddie silenced him, pointing to the screen as if to say _“you’ll miss it”._

Richie grinned to himself, fully embracing this bizarre moment. He had tried to forget how strange this whole thing was, tried to train his mind to pretend Eddie was actually alive and well and that they were simply hanging out. And it was all true - apart from the alive thing - Eddie really was here, and they really were sort of hanging out. For the first time since they were kids, they were hanging out. The last time they’d been together - a whole year ago - they hadn’t had the chance to hang out. The nearest they got to it was during their reunion meal with the other Losers. Beyond that, there had only been fear and chaos. So, it was strange and unfamiliar, to have adult Eddie by his side, watching television in the same way they had those many, many years ago, when they’d been so young. Strange but nice.

His phone pinged, taking Eddie’s attention away from the television.

“What’s that?”

“Just my phone.”

“Obviously, but what’s the notification for?”

“Nosy. Do you always ask such personal questions?”

“You think that’s a personal question?” Eddie scoffed. “Because I’ve been meaning to ask about your taste in décor.”

Richie laughed and followed it with a groan. “Look, you can get the hell out if you don’t like it.”

“Nope. I’ve nowhere else to go. It’ll have to do.”

“Lucky me,” Richie chided, but he did feel lucky. Very lucky. He fished his phone out of his pocket, briefly wondering when he even put it there, and read the message on the screen. “It’s Bev.”

“Bev?” Eddie’s voice brightened.

“Yup.”

“You’re still in touch with each other?” He was practically beaming at this point.

“Yup.” Richie repeated.

“So, no more forgetting one another?”

“It seems not.”

“Well, what’s she saying? How is she?”

“I’m guessing she’s okay. She’s asking how I’m doing. It’s the anniversary of your death, remember?” Quickly, Richie added, “She must be checking up on everybody.” He didn’t want Eddie to know that, out of all of them, his death had hit him like a direct missile, crushing every inch of his soul and turning everything dark. Out of all of them, Richie was the only one who hadn’t been able to move on. Not even the slightest bit.

“Aren’t you going to answer her?” Eddie watched as Richie tossed his phone to one side.

“In a bit.”

Eddie said nothing for a second. Then, “how are the others?”

Richie knew Eddie deserved some answers, and so he turned down the sound on the TV and proceeded to tell Eddie everything he knew about Bev, Ben, Mike and Bill. He told Eddie about Bev and Ben leaving Derry together, the happy couple, and about Mike finally leaving Derry and getting out into the world - and Big Bill, well, Big Bill was holding up just fine, and his latest book had been a hit. No, Richie hadn’t read it yet, but he had a copy. It was sitting somewhere on a shelf in his bedroom and he told Eddie he’d been too busy to sit down with it. A total lie, of course. He’d had all the time in the world, but zero motivation to do anything other than drift by like a dust particle.

“Man, that’s great.” Eddie was buzzing.

Richie agreed with a monotone “yeah.”

“And how about you, Richie? What’s new?”

Richie was baffled. It hadn’t been a question he was prepared for. One that he was certainly not expecting Eddie Kaspbrak to ask. He thought he could get away with ignoring his friends messages and calls. They might think he’s busy, or just forgetful. But here was Eddie, sat right by him, expecting answers that Richie couldn’t supply. He tried to think fast, tried to think of some way to change the subject. And then something popped into his head. But it was something he needed to know. There was no better time to ask than right now.

“Have you seen Stan?”

“What?” Eddie was stunned.

“Talking about the others got me thinking about Stan. Have you seen him?”

It looked as though Eddie was about to go on another rant about how ridiculous Richie was being, but then his face softened, and he spoke gently. “No, Richie. Sadly not. I haven’t seen Stan.” He frowned. “I haven’t seen anybody.”

“Of course not. You said something about being in limbo, right?”

“Right. Something like that. It’s the only way I can describe it. Like floating, Richie. Completely alone and not quite awake, but somewhat aware of existing.”

But it got Richie thinking. If Eddie could exist, both in this “limbo” state and physically on Earth, in his apartment, then could Stan exist? Could Stan be out there somewhere? It was a fleeting thought, one Richie chose not to dwell on because there were too many implications, it made his head hurt. It should have brought him some comfort, but it didn’t. It only brought more confusion as to why Eddie was here and when he’d be gone again.

Richie’s body was sore. Perhaps it was lack of sleep, or the remaining effects of his hangover. Perhaps it was all the stress and adrenaline of reuniting with Eddie. Perhaps it was just because his body was always sore now. The depression had somehow spread from his mood to his body, and he was exhausted every damn day.

“You’re tired.” Eddie commented, and Richie flinched because he wondered if he could read his mind.

“You’re right,” he said, and after rubbing his eyes, he asked, “what happens now?”

Eddie thought about this question. “Well, I guess we’ll have to do more thinking. Or I will, at least. I think you should get some sleep. You must be shaken up.”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon.” Richie wasn’t really complaining about it, merely pointing it out.

“Doesn’t matter. Get some rest. I’ll wait here.”

Richie didn’t need much encouragement. He pulled himself up off the couch, feeling every bit of his weight, and he shuffled out of the room.

As he walked away, he glanced over his shoulder and saw Eddie in front of the television. The sight felt like a punch in the stomach. Felt like something that could have been, _should_ have been.

A thought so overwhelming pounded into Richie’s head, stopping his heart.

Would Eddie be here when he woke up?

He almost rushed back into the room to ask. He wanted Eddie’s word, his promise.

But he sloped away instead.

It was a cruel joke, to have Eddie back in his life temporarily. To have Eddie in his apartment, doing all the mundane things like watching television together, knowing that he wasn’t alive. That his life had been snatched from him and his time on Earth was nearly up.

 _But it will be even crueller,_ Richie thought, as he threw himself onto his mattress, _if this is just a dream._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm having a lot of fun writing this, and hope whoever's reading this is having fun too. lmk what you think? thank you! x


	4. DEAD DINNER DATE

# CHAPTER 4 - DEAD DINNER DATE

Richie opened his eyes to darkness.

He fumbled around, searching the night-stand for his glasses.

He blinked away the blur of sleep and pushed himself up in his bed.

The curtains and blinds were drawn open. He hadn’t closed them earlier that afternoon when he’d thrown himself down for a nap. But it must have been one hell of a nap, because it was dark out now and the only light in the room came from the street-lights outside.

He wondered what time it was, but had no strength to figure out where he’d left his cell phone. Perhaps it was good to have slept for so long. The sooner this day was over, the better. And then, like a classic light bulb moment, the events of the day dawned on Richie, brighter than sunrise on a clear day.

Eddie was here.

Or, he _should_ be here.

It suddenly didn’t matter that he was weak on his feet or that his head hurt. Richie rolled himself out of bed with more eagerness than he had managed to muster in a whole year, and padded down the hall towards the living room.

Eddie wasn’t there but the blinds were drawn and someone had flicked the low lamps on, so that was a good sign.

“Eddie?” He was too lazy to explore the whole apartment. He wanted a quick answer, a fast confirmation that Eddie was still here with him and this whole thing hadn’t been a dream. “Eddie?” Richie called a little louder.

“I’m in here!”

Relief flooded him like a tidal wave. He followed the familiar voice into the kitchen and stopped by the door.

“Always the damn kitchen, Eds.”

“Shut up.”

“What are you doing?” Richie entered the room and headed straight for the sink. He needed a glass of cold water. Stat.

“What does it look like? I’m cooking.”

“I thought you couldn’t eat or drink.”

“I can’t. I’m cooking for you, dumbass.”

A second slipped by and Richie remained silent. It was as though his breath had been taken away. It was a small, silly gesture, yet somehow it meant so much. Why?

Well. It was _Eddie,_ and Eddie was cooking for _him,_ and wasn’t that kinda sweet and romantic? In a totally unintentional way, of course, because clearly Eddie wasn’t doing it to sweep him off his feet. Not just that, but Eddie had obviously been thinking about him then, enough to start dinner for him. And, on top of it all, Richie had been completely and utterly alone, and just plain lonely and miserable for a whole fucking year (and longer, honestly, because life hadn’t been so sweet before returning to Derry for a second clown-fight) - so, this gesture struck him deeply. Because he wasn’t in his apartment alone right now. He had company. Haunted company, but company all the same. And somebody was doing something for _him._ It had been a while since someone had done something for him, and that included himself - because he never did a thing for himself lately. His quality of sleep was poor, he had a shit diet, he rarely did anything that could be described as ‘fun’ and sometimes, oh god, sometimes, he could go a full week without showering.

“Oh,” he said dumbly. “Oh, okay. Thanks?”

“Yeah,” Eddie was spooning something out of a jar into a saucepan. “I was bored while you were sleeping so I decided to give myself a tour of this place.”

“Wonderful,” Richie added sarcastically.

“You really don’t have much food in, Richie. Well, no _real_ food. But I found pasta. So that’s what you’re having tonight.”

“Pasta’s real food.”

“Of course. The only real food in the house though.”

“Right, right. Pizza rolls don’t count, do they? Forgot about that.”

“They definitely do not count.”

Richie pulled a glass from the cupboard by the sink and served himself some cold water. He downed it in one long swig and made a satisfied “aaaah” sound that earned a glare from Eddie. He tossed him a playful smirk in return and then sat at the kitchen table because he didn’t really know what to do next.

“This is… unusual.”

“What is?”

“You cooking for me.” Richie said rather stupidly. Because of course it was unusual. It had never happened before.

“You’re right. Probably because I’m dead.” Eddie spoke so matter-of-factly, it made Richie wince.

“Mm, yeah. That could be it.”

He sat in relative silence as Eddie prepared the pasta. Out of boredom, he stared at his phone. Richie knew he should answer his friends. Apart from the one message he’d sent out to them earlier in the day, he’d remained mute, and there had been an influx of messages and calls since.

Richie glanced up from his phone and watched as Eddie drained the water from the pasta. An absurd thought came to him, both disturbing and yet mildly amusing, somehow. He wondered what reaction he’d get from the Losers if he simply snapped a picture of Eddie by his kitchen sink and posted it to their group chat. It was a grim musing to have, but he had to stifle a laugh despite how wrong it felt. The last thing he wanted was to have to explain to Eddie what had tickled him, so he bit down hard on his bottom lip and he soon lost any trace of a smile.

Before long, Eddie was placing the dish of pasta in front of Richie and standing there, hands on hips, as though awaiting approval.

“This looks great, Eddie.” Richie offered, trying hard to keep his mind following one track - the track that said _hey, this is totally normal and fine, everything is all good._ But he couldn’t really deny that having your pasta served up by a corpse was slightly iffy and out there. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He flitted away and started washing up.

“Aren’t you gonna join me?”

“Isn’t it kind of pointless?”

Richie paused, thought about it. “Suit yourself.”

But then he heard a defeated groan from behind him and Eddie flopped himself down in the opposite chair.

“Is it fun?” Richie asked.

“Is what fun?”

“Watching me eat?”

“Screw you.” Eddie shook his head, utterly fed up with everything, but when he noticed Richie had started eating, he lightened up and asked, “how is it?”

“It’s superb,” Richie answered, mouth full of pasta, and he heard Eddie groan again. “There’s only one thing missing.”

“What?”

Richie put his fork down and gestured, dramatically, towards the centre of the table with a flourished wave of his hand. “A candle.”

Eddie’s face was a picture.

* * *

Night fell and the day neared its end.

That morning, Richie had been a groggy mess; had been unhappily anticipating the day ahead and all the horrible memories that were likely to crush him like a dead-weight. One year since Derry. One year since IT’s defeat. One year since losing Eds.

He hadn’t anticipated the complete twist the day had taken. A whirlwind of a day; fast and epic, and yet, simultaneously, it had dragged like a dead thing.

“We need to talk about it,” Eddie was saying as Richie was trying to watch re-runs of Unsolved Mysteries. Pretty fucking ironic considering he was currently trying to handle the biggest mystery of his life.

“Talk about what?” Richie asked. Yes, he was being a dick.

“What the fuck do you think?”

“Look, Eddie,” he sighed, long and loud, “I’m really tired and I don’t have the energy for this. Can’t we just watch TV and pretend everything’s normal?”

“Are you being serious right now?”

“Deadly.” Richie said, deadpan. “No offence.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

“Forget it. Let’s just watch this.” Richie stretched. “Please.”

“I’ve literally come back from the dead, and you’re more concerned with watching this shitty show?”

“Excuse me. This show is fantastic.”

Richie could practically hear Eddie’s eyes roll in response. And the truth was, he didn’t really know why he was acting like this all of a sudden. Richie _knew_ he was being a dick - a big one - and he couldn’t stop himself, even though he wanted to. It was, Richie supposed, down to a few possibilities. One: he was super exhausted. Two: there was a need within him to pretend that Eddie sitting with him watching TV was normal, was simply his _life,_ because that’s all he wanted. Three: he was a little pissed off that he’d been suffering and now Eddie was suddenly here again, albeit temporarily, and now he had some sort of responsibility to figure out why and what was supposed to come next. He’d much rather forget it all. He’d rather sit here with Eddie, pretend he was alive, and enjoy some television show with him, because he needed this. This was the only thing he wanted in life. A funny realisation, considering he’d worked so hard to kick his career off, and worked so hard to buy all the material things he thought he wanted.

Holding Eddie in his arms as he died had made him question everything. And now that they were reunited in front of his TV, Richie decided that this was all he needed and all he wanted. This was pure happiness.

But there was nothing very happy about it right now. Eddie was pissed off. Rightfully so.

“I can’t believe this. Please, Richie, I need some help here.”

“I didn’t ask you to rise from the grave and come spook me, okay?” The words left a bitter taste on his tongue and Richie wished he could snatch them mid-air and shove them back down his throat like sour pills.

“I’m sorry it’s such a fucking inconvenience.” Eddie’s voice was rising.

And then Richie did it.

He shrugged his shoulders.

Eddie jumped up from the couch and left the room. He banged the door shut after him, loud enough to startle Richie, and complete silence followed.

Richie’s shoulders sagged and he slumped further into the sofa. He audibly groaned at his own stupidity and it didn’t take very long for him to get to his feet and start searching for Eddie.

 _You’re an idiot, Trashmouth._ He thought as he walked slowly down the hall. _A complete tool._

He found Eddie in his bathroom, leaning over the sink in a stance Richie was familiar with. He’d been there himself on many occasions, puking his guts out. But Eddie wasn’t vomiting.

Eddie was _crying._

“Eddie,” Richie was whispering. “Eds…”

Eddie had his back to Richie but from where he stood, Richie could see that Eddie was wiping at his face, trying to clean himself up.

“Eddie, I’m sorry.” Richie’s voice was soft.

Eddie straightened up and turned around, facing Richie. “It doesn’t matter.”

But it did matter, because Eddie’s eyes were sad and wet and the frown on his face was deeper than any frown Richie had seen before. He looked exhausted - well, _beyond_ exhausted. Richie realised just how selfish he was being. It was hard for both of them. Not just him. Eddie was as confused and upset as he was. He deserved answers and, more importantly, rest. Richie couldn’t sit and ignore this whole thing; it wasn’t normal, even if he wished it could be.

“It does matter.” Richie firmed up. “I’m sorry for being a dick. It was uncalled for. Bad timing.”

“Yeah,” Eddie agreed sadly.

“We’ll figure this out.”

“Do you think so?”

“I hope so, Eds.” Richie was compelled to leap forward and wrap his arms around Eddie, but he stopped himself. “We’ll do our best.”

Eddie nodded.

Richie pushed a hand through his messy hair and sighed. “Alright. Can we chill tonight and get this shit sorted in the morning?”

Eddie smiled, but it was a modest one. “Sure thing. You still look tired.”

“So do you.”

“At least I have a good excuse to look like shit.”

“Touché.”

They laughed in unison. Small laughter, but it was genuine.

“Eddie?”

“Yeah?” He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Do you sleep?”

“I’m not sure.” He admitted. “This is my first day out of limbo.” They’d come to refer to that semi-conscious state as ‘limbo’. It was easier for both of them. “I guess I don’t require it. But I do feel tired.”

“Maybe you should try to sleep.”

“Maybe.”

Richie put his hands in his pockets, eyes on the floor. “Wanna go to bed?”

“Okay. Where should I sleep?”

* * *

There was a spare room in Richie’s apartment, but it wasn’t kitted out for guests. It was filled with his own things instead. Shelves upon shelves of books and movies. Collectibles and figures. Comics. Nerdy shit.

There was no bed in there; just a single armchair. Pure self-indulgence.

Eddie scoffed at it, but he also congratulated him because, he said, he recalled Richie always describing a room just like this, back when they were kids and they spoke about things like dream homes and winning the lottery. “You deserve it, Rich,” he clapped him on the back.

After weighing up the options, Richie stated, “you stay in my bed. I’ll take the couch.”

“I can’t do that, Richie.”

“Tough.”

But, he thought to himself: _there’s plenty of room for the both of us in my bed, and have you noticed that we haven’t even hugged each other yet, Eddie? Can’t we share my bed and just fucking hug all night?_

That wasn’t going to happen because he didn’t have the guts to suggest it. And even if he did have balls big enough to say it aloud, Eddie would flatly refuse. So, he tidied his bedroom up a little while Eddie was distracted and hoped for the best.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright on the sofa?”

“Sure.” Richie had brought some pillows and a blanket into the living room, and was setting up the couch.

“Because I really don’t mind just slee-”

“Eds,” Richie stopped him. “It’s fine. Seriously. Go get some sleep.” He tried to smile. “Oh, and if you need anything, don’t wake me up.”

“Ha, ha. Good one.”

With that, Eddie sauntered out of the living room and in the direction of Richie’s bedroom.

It was a restless night.

Richie couldn’t get comfortable on the couch, and each time he eventually drifted into sleep, something would wake him. Usually some conscious thought that seeped into his dreams like _‘I wonder if Eddie’s okay’,_ or _‘When are you gonna finally tell Eds, Tozier?’_ He quickly realised that he was feeling anxious. Far too anxious to sleep. So he lay there instead, defeated.

The urge to creep into his bedroom and curl up by Eddie’s side was immense and overwhelming. It took plenty of willpower to keep him planted firmly on the sofa. The one thing that managed to keep him there was the thought of Eddie’s reaction. If he found Richie lying by his side, he’d surely freak. Right? I mean, there was literally no reason for them to share a bed.

Apart from the fact that Eddie had been killed right in front of him and Richie had been missing him every single day for a whole fucking year.

But how was he supposed to say that?

He didn’t know. But Richie knew he had to get his act together and say _something,_ because he was becoming more and more convinced that he was the reason why Eddie had come back.

It was all his fault.

He had to fix it.

But why was this happening? Did he have some guardian angel watching over him? Some angel who wanted to give Richie Tozier a second chance? But Eddie hadn’t been sent back to Earth by angels - he’d said it himself.

Was Eddie his guardian angel?

What kind of fucked up miracle had Richie been blessed with?

Was it even a blessing, or just a curse?

These thoughts whizzed around Richie’s brain. Back and forth, round and round.

There was only one thing that Richie was certain of anymore. 

It had been the longest fucking day of his life.


	5. THE CASE OF THE FLOATING MILK

# CHAPTER 5 - THE CASE OF THE FLOATING MILK

6am. Richie was awake, and wasn’t sure if he’d even slept at all.

He rolled out of his sofa-tomb and wandered into the kitchen. The house was silent and the morning light pouring through closed blinds was weak and of very little substance. He switched on the dim lamp that was fixed above the counter and thought about making himself some coffee. During this contemplation, Eddie padded into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes.

“You’re awake,” Richie commented, startled to see Eddie up and about so early. No, it wasn’t that. He was just startled to _see_ him. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to it. Eddie was dead, didn’t belong here, and on top of that, they’d spent so damn long away from one another that it shocked Richie to see him every time - almost like their adult worlds didn’t belong together, didn’t belong combined. It was a double whammy.

“I haven’t slept all night.” Eddie sat himself at the kitchen table.

Richie’s first thought was that Eddie hadn’t been comfortable enough in his bed, but then he remembered something and asked, “so, you can’t sleep then? Just like eating and drinking?”

“It seems so. I guess it makes sense. Why would I need to at this point?” He stretched his arms high in the air. “I feel tired though. I _think._ I keep suppressing the urge to yawn.”

Richie began to fix coffee, catching himself just in time as he started to reach for a second mug. “So, you didn’t sleep all night.” He was propped against the counter, arms folded and his tired eyes fixed on Eddie. “What _did_ you do?”

“Not very much. I lay there. Tried to just rest. Spent a lot of time thinking.”

“Didn’t you know that thinking is bad for you?”

Eddie laughed. “I see _you’ve_ taken that mantra to heart.”

“Ouch.” Richie played the wounded victim, clutching at his aching heart, and Eddie rolled his eyes. But Richie noted his smile and for the first time in a long time, Richie grinned. Ear to ear.

“I can’t get my head around it,” Eddie continued, the smile on his face dropping. And with that, Richie’s grin fell too. “I’ve been thinking about it all night, Richie. I don’t know why I’m here and it’s really frustrating.”

Richie silently stirred his coffee and, only after taking a cautious sip, he asked, “are you a little bit glad to be back?”

Eddie’s eyebrows were raised, as if to say _good question_ , and then he shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.”

“That’s not the answer I was expecting.”

“It’s not like I’m back properly, alive again.” Eddie was looking at Richie as though he was studying him. “I don’t get to be alive for a little while. I’m dead and I feel it. I’m not at home. I’m here, with you, and while I’m not complaining, I still don’t get it.”

“Maybe you’re not supposed to.” Richie interjected promptly. “Maybe you’ll be here for a while and maybe there’s no reason. Maybe they fucked something up on your end.”

“What do you mean?” Eddie was looking doubtful.

“Like, maybe there _is_ a waiting room and you got there too soon.”

Eddie’s eyes touched the sky. “How many more times, Richie? Stop the smart comments.”

Richie shut his mouth, not just because Eddie wanted him to, but he also decided it was probably for the best. He wasn’t often that wise, but if wisdom was the coffee in his hand, his cup would be overflowing now. Yes - sometimes even Richie knew when to keep his mouth shut. Knew when his foot was hovering over a line he shouldn’t cross, and that the next word out of his mouth would push him over it. So he quietened down. Took a metaphorical step backwards, away from the metaphorical line.

“Why am I _here?_ Why am I not in Derry? Or…” Eddie paused for the briefest of seconds, but it was unmistakable to Richie, who was hanging on his every word. “…At home, with Myra.”

Richie downed the remainder of his coffee, licked his lips and said, “Who the fuck knows, Eddie? You don’t know. I don’t know. But you _do_ know a few things, right? The stuff about being here for a reason, and not being here for very long. I mean, if you know that and it’s sort of just within you to know that, then surely the answers will come along eventually.” He rinsed the empty mug, placed it on the side, and clapped his hands together, pleased by his words. “Yeah, I think that might be it, Eds.”

Eddie did not look convinced. “I hope it’s that simple.”

“Whatever force, whatever being, whatever _magic_ sent you here, will surely make the message clear eventually. Doesn’t that sound fair?”

* * *

Yes, Richie was stalling.

But he had good reason to stall.

In fact, there were numerous _great_ reasons to stall.

He decided, somewhere along the way, that the best thing to do was to act as though he hadn’t the _slightest_ inkling as to why Eddie may be here with him and nowhere else. He had to hold any potential clues at arm’s length, in order to keep Eddie within arm’s length.

Also, to save face.

It seemed to be working, too. All he had to do was keep Eddie busy, keep him distracted. It was only perfectly reasonable that Eddie was panicking and thinking, constantly. It was an urgency to him - to find out why he was _here_ and not in Heaven, or God knows where else.

Richie felt guilty about it though. He felt guilty for holding Eddie back if he had the answer to let him go. He wasn’t entirely certain that he had the answers, but it was seeming likely that he did. And if he was wrong, then he really had no idea why Eddie was stuck with him and they were both probably screwed - Eddie destined to remain on Earth, not quite alive but not exactly dead either, and Richie destined to keep it all a secret.

But for now, supposing he _did_ have the key to send Eddie to wherever he would move on to next, Richie decided he had every right to stall. It wasn’t every day that a loved one returned from the dead.

Or was it?

“Do you think other people are experiencing this right now?” Richie asked, prompted by his own thoughts.

“Experiencing what?”

“Like, someone they know coming back from the dead?” He scratched his head. “If you’re here, for whatever reason it might be, could other people be back to sort out any unfinished business or whatever?”

Eddie was quiet, pondering. “I don’t see why not. Probably.”

They were in Richie’s car. Desperate measures would have to be taken to keep Eddie distracted. The television sure as hell wasn’t working, so the only thing Richie could think of was to get Eddie out of the apartment. He needed to pick up some milk anyway, after the disaster of the previous afternoon when Eddie had frightened the shit out of him.

Eddie had been reluctant.

“It’s a bad idea. Terrible.” He had said, when Richie first brought it up. “What if something bad happens when I leave the house? I don’t know the rules yet.”

“Oh, yeah, like what?” Richie pushed. “You’re already dead. Can anything much worse happen?”

“I don’t know! Possibly!”

“Sandworms?”

“Stop the Beetlejuice references, Richie. It’s not cool.” Eddie hid his face in his hands. “I mean, no one else will be able to see me, right?”

“Probably not. But I think we should find out.”

“I’m not leaving your car if I go with you.”

“Okay, okay. Come for the ride.”

Eddie hesitated, then gave in. “I guess staying in here will only drive me crazy.”

And with that, the pair of them left Richie’s apartment. When they reached his car, Richie commented, “hey, look, you haven’t exploded yet.”

Eddie flipped him off, but there was a look of tremendous relief on his face. He could leave the apartment without any physical consequences. That was one more thing they knew, one more thing they had on their side.

They pulled up outside of the store.

Richie’s question - about the existence of other ghosts floating around - was on his mind as he watched people strolling up and down the side walk. Were there any ghosts walking by their sides? Any invisible arms linked through living arms? It was suddenly crushing to think about. Everything he thought he knew and believed had been distorted and changed. It was absurd to imagine that there may be spirits, like ordinary people, marching around out here, unseen. But then he turned to his own side and saw Eddie, and decided that anything was possible.

“Let’s go,” he said suddenly, trying to shake off the chills that had crept upon him like a thickening fog.

“What? No.” Eddie folded his arms. “I told you I’m not leaving the car.”

“But then we’ll never know if other people can see you or not.”

“And how will we find that out exactly?”

“Wait for the terrified looks when people see me speaking to myself.”

Eddie sighed. “I don’t know, Richie.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not _afraid._ ” Eddie was watching from his window, staring out at the world intently and a little frightful, as though it was meaning to do him harm.

“Come on, Eds. You’re dead. You’re probably invisible to everyone else here but me. Isn’t that kinda cool? You can do anything you want.”

Eddie glared, just as Richie had expected.

_Note to self,_ Richie thought, _don’t try to persuade a corpse that they have the upper-hand._

“Fine. I’ll come with you.” Eddie turned in his seat to look at Richie, face serious. “But listen to me. If I _am_ invisible to everyone else, I’m not doing any stupid shit like stealing groceries for you or tripping some asshole you don’t like. Okay?”

“It’s a done deal, Eds!”

For a fleeting moment, it felt like they were kids again.

* * *

They were kids again as they entered the grocery store, Richie suddenly giddy over the idea that Eddie couldn’t be seen by anybody else. They were kids as Richie noticed a few glances shot in his direction as he asked invisible-Eddie, “should I go with raspberry or apricot yogurt?”

Richie asked Eddie to grab a bottle of milk for him and, when he did, joked that “floating milk” would be the next case for Mulder and Scully. Eddie, flushed and panicked, quickly slid the bottle into the basket Richie was carrying and guiltily looked around, as though he’d committed a crime. He only laughed when he realised nobody was watching.

“If I wasn’t already famous,” Richie gloated, though the bragging was feigned, “I’d keep you here with me to perform cool tricks. Instant millionaire.”

Eddie gave him a hard nudge in the stomach and he groaned, catching the eye of a concerned customer. He not-so-smoothly offered an innocent smile and walked away in the opposite direction, Eddie - none the wiser - lagging behind him.

It was only a brief visit to the grocery store, but it was weirdly significant to Richie, who had barely cracked a smile in a year. And, as a side note, it was the first time in… well, he couldn’t remember when, that he hadn’t done grocery shopping alone. He did everything alone. Not just post-Eddie’s death, after retreating within himself and ignoring anybody who did try to call on him, but before that too.

The laughter at the grocery store was like a breath of fresh air after hanging around in Derry’s underground sewer system.

It was simple fun - but he had been needing it.

When they were driving back to his apartment, Eddie said, “I told you it was a bad idea.”

Richie felt a little deflated to hear Eddie hadn’t had as much fun as he had, but he didn’t let it show. “Oh, come on. Nothing terrible happened.”

“We got a few looks.”

“I think you mean _I_ got a few looks.” Richie scoffed.

Eddie suddenly brightened, like unexpected sun after a storm. “I guess it was pretty funny.”

“Yeah, I looked like an idiot. You should be pleased.”

“Maybe I should cause a little more trouble for you the next time we’re out.” Eddie was teasing him, and Richie picked up on it immediately. “Not that you need any help looking like an idiot. You do that pretty well all by yourself.”

“Don’t you dare, Kaspbrak.” But Richie wanted him to. He didn’t care if people thought he was talking to himself; he didn’t care if Eddie tripped someone up and left Richie to take the blame. So long as Eddie was playing around with him, like in the old days, he’d let anything slide.

* * *

The distractions seemed to be working.

Later that evening, Richie was lounging on the sofa and Eddie was in an armchair, reading a magazine from the pile stashed under the coffee table.

Richie was still getting used to the company, but it all felt… _normal._

It felt right to look up from where he sat and to see Eddie, sitting there, reading; as comfortable as he would be if this was his own home. They were suddenly back in time, in the clubhouse, or in Richie’s childhood bedroom, passing hours in the slow summer days and the dark winter evenings.

They were kids again, and nothing had changed.

But then Eddie said it.

“So, when are we gonna talk about it?”

Immediately, Richie supposed Eddie was asking about their current dilemma. “I thought you decided to wait and see, Eds.” He didn’t want to talk about it all, not right now. He was fed up of trying to work out this big mystery when all he really wanted to do was celebrate the fact that Eddie was _here_ again.

“Not that.”

Richie looked up. Eddie had his attention. “What then?”

“That day in Derry. Everything, I guess.”

“Oh.” Richie was stunned into silence. What was there to say? Yes, Eddie had died. They both knew it. There was a lot to say, of course, but where could Richie start?

“Thanks, Richie.”

“For what?”

“Trying your hardest.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was hurt.”

Richie swallowed. There was a sudden change of atmosphere in the room. The day had been going swell, considering the fact he was hanging out with a dead guy, and he’d just started to feel pretty relaxed and content…

The memories of that day in Derry came crashing back with such staggering force, it made Richie’s head swim. He was grateful to be seated. He was sure his face would have met the floor with a rather resounding _thwack,_ had he been standing.

He didn’t want to talk about this either. In fact, he’d rather listen to Eddie go on and on about why he could possibly be here, back from the dead, in California, in Richie Tozier’s fucking apartment of all places! Anything but this conversation.

“I don’t understand.”

Eddie put the magazine down and took a deep breath. It seemed Richie wasn’t the only nervous one in the room. “I know you tried to keep me alive.”

“I wanted to.” Richie said quickly, with feeling. More feeling than he’d intended to let slip.

“There was nothing anyone could do.”

_Are you sure?_ Richie wanted to say. _Are you sure we couldn’t have done more? I should have done more. I should have dragged your body out of that place, at the very least._

He said nothing instead.

“It just feels weird,” Eddie continued, “to not address it all.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Richie replied. Eddie was right. It would be strange to avoid this conversation. Richie just wished they could put it off a _little_ bit longer.

“I feel guilty that I couldn’t help you guys.” Eddie cleared his throat. “At the very end, I mean.”

Richie said nothing, because he didn’t care about that. The only thing he cared about was the fact that Eddie had been killed. Right in front of him. Blood on his face. His glasses. Nothing he could do. Eddie’s body, limp and broken and bleeding. Helpless. There was nothing he could do to help. He remembered everything so clearly, from the moment he was spat out of the Deadlights to the moment he left Derry.

Eddie spoke up when Richie still said nothing. “I really thought I killed It, Richie.”

His words brought back the memory of Eddie leaning above him, telling him that It was dead. It was dead, and Eddie had killed It.

“Richie?”

“I’m tired.” Richie said. “I can’t talk about this right now.”

“Richie, I really think we-”

“Please,” he cut in. “Not now.”

It wasn’t very late, and he wasn’t really very tired, but he knew he had to leave the room. He had to exit this conversation before he lost it. Richie wasn’t ready yet.

He climbed off the couch and, with shaky legs, padded out of the room.

From behind him, Richie heard Eddie sigh, but there was no movement. He let himself into his bedroom and closed the door behind him.

* * *

“Rich?”

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since he had fled from the living room, but it hadn’t been very long.

Richie was lying in his bed, face buried in the pillows, and he was only aware of Eddie’s presence when a hand groped his shoulder. “Huh?” He lifted his head.

“Why did you walk out on me?” Eddie’s voice was soft. He didn’t sound pissed off, but he did sound confused.

Richie was reluctant to answer the question, but he rolled on to his back anyway, and looked up at Eddie. It was almost dark in his bedroom now, and he wasn’t wearing his glasses, so Eddie was a fuzzy blur. When he looked like this, it was easier to accept Eddie as a figment of his imagination.

“Look,” Richie began, rubbing his face and mentally noting the fact that he desperately needed to shave, “it’s just hard to talk about.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighed, and closed his eyes. It was easier to say things when he wasn’t looking at Eddie. “It hit me hard, man.” He cleared his throat. “When you died.”

Understatement of the century.

“Oh,” Eddie said with caution.

“Yeah.” Richie wished his mattress would swallow him up, like that scene from A Nightmare on Elm Street. “It’s all fine. I’m okay. I just wasn’t expecting to talk about it right now.”

“I understand.” Eddie replied, but he still sounded confused. “I guess I didn’t realise how much it had affected you.”

Eddie’s words kicked Richie in the gut. How could Eddie’s death _not_ affect him tremendously? Had Eddie forgotten how close they were, back in Derry, when they were kids? Had Eddie not been hit with those feelings and memories when he came back to Derry to beat that fucking clown once and for all? Was it only Richie who had stepped back in Derry, feeling as though he had stepped back in time and nothing had changed?

There was so much to say and yet, Richie said nothing. He didn’t want to let on just how much Eddie’s death had impacted him, because now it seemed to sound so ridiculous.

The other Losers had moved on. Of course they had been distraught to lose Eddie, but somehow, they had managed to pick up the pieces and move on with their lives. From what Richie could gather, they had all found _happiness._ They weren’t just getting _by,_ they were _thriving._ But him? He wasn’t even scraping by. He had lost everything.

And wasn’t that so ridiculous, considering he had gone so long without Eddie, without even remembering him?

It felt childish and silly to suddenly admit to Eddie just how broken he was and that it was all down to losing him. To losing someone he didn’t have for a good twenty-something years and, it seemed, someone he never _really_ had, even when they were kids.

He felt embarrassed. Ashamed. And he couldn’t bring himself to admit how much of a mess he was.

So he just said nothing. And he didn’t even open his eyes when Eddie left the room. He lay there, wishing that Eddie hadn’t left. Wishing that Eddie had, instead, curled up on the bed behind him. He wished he could feel reassuring arms wrap around his body; arms that felt too real and too warm to be dead.

But the room was empty, as it always was, and his eyes stayed shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who has been reading xo


	6. TALL-TALE-TOZIER

# CHAPTER 6 - TALL-TALE-TOZIER

“No way! How the fuck did I forget that?!”

“No fucking clue!” Richie had almost spat his drink out. He wiped his wet mouth on his sleeve.

“Okay, okay, but what about Mrs Carter’s class?” Eddie was laughing through his words. “I swear she must have spent half the classes we had with her daydreaming about punching your lights out.”

Laughter ripped through Richie again and now his eyes were tearing up. “Nah, man. She totally liked me.”

“Yeah, you used to always say she was having it off with you behind her husband’s back.” Eddie’s body shook with laughter. “She was like… fifty.”

Richie sighed fondly - _those were the days._ “You’re right though, Eds. She hated my guts.”

“And rightfully so! You gave her hell every class.”

Just last night, Richie had been utterly miserable. His bed had never seemed so empty and cold, and the struggle to fall asleep more immense. He had no idea what Eddie had spent the night doing, considering he didn’t sleep any more, but assumed he had sat in front of the television for the majority of it. In the morning, neither of them mentioned the previous evening; no apologies, no beating around the bush in an attempt to start up the conversation again. It was as if it had all been forgotten and, in a way, Richie couldn’t be more grateful to sweep the whole damn thing under the proverbial rug.

The day had been mostly uneventful and long, but surprisingly not very boring. Richie couldn’t really say what he’d spent the morning doing; hours often floated away with him and still did, despite Eddie’s sudden presence. But during the afternoon, the pair of them sat in the living room which grew more dull and grey as every new hour passed and every new burst of rain showered down on them. Hours were spent reminiscing and reminding. Only the good stuff. They trod very lightly around the bad stuff.

“That fucking hammock!” Richie cried. “More trouble than it was worth.”

Eddie was laughing again, and what a lovely sound it was. “We almost fought to the death every time.”

“That was _your_ fault.” Richie was pointing at Eddie now, nearly jumping out of his seat.

“No fucking way. You couldn’t time-keep for your life!”

“Newsflash, Eds - I wasn’t even trying.”

“I already knew that, you fucker.” Eddie was grinning. “You were always bad at sharing.”

“That’s not true.” Richie shook his head. “I shared basically everything with you.”

Eddie was quiet for a second, concentrating. “You know what? You’re right. You shared food and money with me all the time.”

“Exactly!”

“And even clothes.”

“Clothes?” Richie’s eyes were narrowed, one eyebrow raised. He couldn’t remember this one.

“Yeah. I remember you gave me your jacket once. We were all out and it started fucking raining. It was the one time I wasn’t prepared for the abrupt weather change!” He was shaking his head. “I usually had everything on me - just in case - but not that time.” Eddie shifted in his seat, getting more comfortable. “Do you remember?”

“I do…” Richie said slowly, piecing the memory together. “Yeah! It was a last minute thing, right? Which is probably why you actually left your fucking house without a suitcase full of supplies.”

“I can’t remember what the fuck we were doing now, but I remember being caught in the rain on the way home. Me and you and…” He trailed off. “And I’m pretty sure it was Bill?"

“Mhmm.” Richie confirmed.

“You let me wear your jacket until I got home. I handed it back to you before heading inside so you could wear it the rest of the way.” Eddie was smiling, eyes glazed over. He was in the past, right there in the memory. It was all over his face. “But you were already fucking drenched.” He laughed. “You still put the fucking thing on anyway.”

Richie nodded. He remembered it now, like it was yesterday, and he wondered how he’d ever forgotten. February 1989. Bill and Eddie, waiting in the Barrens for Richie. Stan couldn’t make it. Richie had sauntered over, tickets in his hand. He’d managed to persuade his father to buy them and pick them up on his way home from work. “Tomorrow night, boys!” They were going to watch The ‘Burbs, Richie recalled. He remembered it clearly now, because he had been so excited. A ticket was handed to each of them and they sat for a few minutes as they made arrangements for the following day. Where they would meet, what time they would meet. And then they were heading home for dinner.

The rain had come unexpectedly and, naturally, they ran.

Eddie was hit the worst. Richie thought it was strange that he had left his house without a coat, considering it was fairly cool outside. Eddie was yelling as their feet pounded the slick side-walks; yelling about how he would end up with flu if he didn’t get inside quickly.

Richie smiled sadly to himself now, as he remembered the first thought that had ran through his head. _If Eddie gets sick, he won’t be able to come to the movies tomorrow night._ Usually, Richie saw right through Eddie’s panicky bullshit. He was well-adjusted to him at that point, and would normally just roll his eyes or call him out on it. But this time, he didn’t want to risk it. He was looking forward to the following evening, had been all week, and really, he was only doing this for Eddie, because Eddie was excited too. He didn’t want Eddie to miss out on the film.

That’s what young Richie Tozier told himself as he peeled his damp jacket off.

Now, Richie knew exactly why he did it, and wasn’t as afraid of admitting it - not to himself, at least. He was looking forward to watching The ‘Burbs, sure, but he was more excited to be sat in the dark with Eddie, their shoulders bumping and their hands brushing as they both reached for popcorn at the same time and maybe, just maybe, he’d have the fucking guts to let his hand linger there just a second or two longer than necessary…

“Here,” he had said, thrusting the jacket into Eddie’s arms. “Get it on quick, before the inside gets wet.”

Eddie didn’t argue. He slipped into Richie’s jacket, wrapped it around him, and continued to charge down the street. It didn’t matter to Richie that he was now soaking wet and cold. What mattered was that Eddie was warm and well. That he wouldn’t get sick, or wouldn’t get into trouble. So that he would be there, that Friday night, to sit by his side. In the dark. Unreasonably close.

“Yeah,” Richie said now, laughing a little, though he didn’t really find it funny any more. His heart was hurting. Just a little. “I remember.”

* * *

“So, what _have_ you been up to?”

The day had almost vanished into thin air. If it wasn’t for Eddie, who had flicked on some lamps, they’d be sat in darkness. There had been so much to talk about; so many memories to coax out of one another, so many things to laugh about and, sometimes, even _cringe_ about, in the way that adults often did when they recalled certain silly things they had said or done. Even Richie had his regrets. But now, Eddie was swiftly moving from the past to the present, and he was asking that question again - the one that Richie had managed to smoothly avoid the first time, but was struggling to avoid now.

He couldn’t put it off forever, could he?

So he opened his mouth, and Richie was amazed by what came out.

“Just the same old, Eds. I cancelled some shows when I first came back from Derry, took some time to digest everything, you know? But I’ve been on stage a few times since. Actually, I’m working on multiple things now. Mostly television stuff.”

_Fucking liar._

Well, it wasn’t all lies. Not entirely. Before going back to Derry, some new opportunities had come about, and he was preparing to work on a project or two - for television. So, that was a truth. Not a lie. Of course, since coming home, he’d practically become unemployed. He didn’t even know what was happening with those plans. He was still avoiding his manager. So… in that sense, he _was_ a fucking liar.

“Really? That’s great, Rich!”

“Yeah,” Richie agreed. “It’s pretty exciting stuff.” He was surprised by how easily the words slipped from his tongue. He should have been ashamed really, but he couldn’t help but feel impressed.

And then, as if to boost his own ego, to test how well he could lie to Eddie - as though it was something to be proud of - or, maybe it was just to keep up appearances, he spewed a long dialogue about how busy he had been recently and that, thankfully, Eddie had caught him at the best time, because he was having some time off, and ha, he’d even felt motivated enough to _write his own material_ , and wasn’t that fantastic? His manager was more like a good friend, and yeah, they were always busting each other’s balls, but everything was great, and there was really nothing more satisfying than the sound of a cheering audience at the end of a long night.

He hadn’t planned this. It just came out. And it was bullshit, mostly. It had all been true, once upon a time, before things had grown stale and before Derry had summoned him home. He originally wrote his own stuff. Hell, he barely wrote anything down, he would just improvise. It was his speciality, what he was good at. His manager had respected him then, too. And yes, there had been nothing better or more rewarding than the sound of cheer and applause after a night under the hot stage lights.

But things had become tedious when Richie realised that the fame and the attention and the money wasn’t really what he was chasing. That there was an emptiness inside him that couldn’t be filled, no matter how many autographs he signed or how many cars he bought. When the realisation dawned on him, things hadn’t been the same.

Yet, he must have sounded convincing, because Eddie was congratulating him.

“And I take it you’re still single?”

“What? No. Still married to your mom.”

Eddie grinned and flipped him off. “Seriously, Richie, are you dating?”

“Why do you ask?” He spoke in sing-song, light and breezy, trying not to sound so defensive.

“I’m curious.” Eddie said simply.

A perfectly sound reason, considering Richie had spoken very little about himself during their reunion in Derry. He'd learned so much about the others, but had revealed so little about himself. 

“Nope.”

“Hm. Interesting.”

“Interesting?” His voice was calm and casual, but his heart was in his throat. It was a sensation he’d never been able to shake when being questioned about his relationship status.

“I just assumed you’d have plenty of romantic attention.” Eddie was smirking. “Now that you have money.”

Richie scoffed. “That’s a good one. You know they only want me for my big-”

“Rich.”

“-Heart.” He grinned, all toothy and arrogant. Richie laughed then, though inside, he wasn’t particularly amused. “Nah. I’ve dated a few people. Nothing serious though.”

“Of course.”

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

“Go on.”

“It’s just no surprise you haven’t settled down.”

“Oh, you think I can’t be serious, Eds?” His tone was teasing, but his chest was lead. It was clear what Eddie thought of him. He was like the rest of them. But Richie had done this to himself. He’d donned this cloak, and it was hard to shake. He walked right into the trap, back when he was just a kid, and he’d never managed to escape it since.

“Oh, I know you can’t.”

“Bullshit.” It came out sharper than Richie had intended, so he quickly adjusted himself and continued. “I don’t know, man. I haven’t found _the one,_ or whatever. Not all of us are as lucky as you.” 

It was Eddie who scoffed now. “First of all, I’m not _that_ lucky, Richie. I’m fucking dead. Secondly, there’s no such thing as “the one”.”

“So Myra wasn’t the one?”

Eddie glared at Richie. “Don’t put words into my mouth.”

“I’m not,” Richie retorted. “You just said that there’s no such thing as “the one”. Didn’t you just say that?”

He shrugged. “I mean, sometimes, you just know when you should settle down. I don’t think a perfect relationship - or person - exists. It’s too much. You can’t hang around for “the one” when you may never find them. That’s all.”

“You sound defensive.”

“I’m not defensive.”

Richie laughed and shook his head. He wanted to ask Eddie more about this. He wanted to know why Eddie was so pessimistic about love and people, when even Richie could be more open to it. He wanted to know about his marriage - even though, he supposed, it was over now that Eddie was dead - and how he felt about Myra. He had no right, no entitlement to the information, but he wanted it all the same.

Myra wasn’t Eddie’s “one”. That much, he knew.

But Eddie didn’t believe in the existence of a _one._

Richie did. He had the proof.

His _one_ had been out of his life for far too fucking long and he’d never gotten over it. His _one_ had been magically erased from his mind and his memories for most of his damn life, but Richie still felt the impact of knowing his _one_ , and of knowing that his _one_ was far away and out of reach and would never really be _his._

And perfect people did exist.

Half-dead or not.

* * *

Richie felt lighter the following day.

It was the fourth day of Eddie’s resurrection. They had spent three days together, not very long, but in that time, a friendship had been rekindled. In the space of three days, Richie and Eddie hadn’t stopped talking and Richie hadn’t stopped learning new things about him. It almost didn’t matter that he was dead, that his life was over. He was still learning these things he never knew about him, taking in every detail; details he’d missed out on over the years. New information, new facts. He was drinking them down like cold beer on a hot day.

He felt good for it, too.

Spending time with Eddie was like eating a nourishing meal, or sleeping for ten straight hours after suffering from a bout of insomnia. It felt refreshing and healthy. He never imagined he’d equate a paranormal experience to nourishment and health, but there was really no other way to describe it. He just felt _better._

He was starting to feel human again.

Richie certainly felt less alone with Eddie around. There was somebody to talk to, to sit with, to be bored with. There was a reason to get out of bed and a reason to look presentable. He hadn’t been drinking alcohol, either, which was a big fucking deal for him, because he had previously taken to drinking nearly every damn day. He felt more aware of himself and his surroundings. It was as though he was slowly crawling out of his depression slump. Slowly, but it was still progression.

He knew it was dangerous, however, this sudden change of mood. He wasn’t stupid, knew how it all worked. Richie was only feeling better because Eddie was around. Not because there was another _person_ around in general. It had to be Eddie. And he wouldn’t be sticking around.

It was all temporary.

Everything was still fucked.

Probably even more so now.

But he wasn’t thinking of that. He had successfully stored all of his doubts into the unfrequented dusty corner of his mind, and that’s where they were staying. At least for now. As long as Eddie was with him.

And as he grabbed his car keys and his jacket, there was a pang of something so unfamiliar, but not entirely foreign, in his chest. Something that hadn’t resided there for a long, long time. He was too afraid to admit it, and too afraid to label it, but it sort of felt like… happiness.

The big old H-word. It was a scary word, these days.

“Alright,” Richie was sliding into his jacket, “I won’t be long. Maybe an hour or so.”

“Where is it you’re going again?”

“For the hundredth time, Eds, I have a few errands to run.”

“And you really want take-out now, huh?”

“You got me.”

Richie really did have a few errands to run: a visit to his bank, for example, and maybe, just maybe, he’d call his manager for the first time in a century to let him know that all was well. He’d do this from his car, of course, because now that Eddie was around, he didn’t have the same privacy he usually took for granted. But yes, Eddie was absolutely correct: Richie _did_ want take-out food now, too. He was craving it after briefly talking to Eddie about his favourite nearby places.

“You should really eat something healthier.”

“Thanks, mom, I’ll note it down.”

Eddie rolled his eyes and ushered him out of the apartment. “Get going then. Don’t be long. There’s fuck-all to do here.”

“You could tidy up if you get really bored.”

A trademark glare. “Your mess, not mine.”

Richie grinned as he backed out of the apartment. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

He walked out of the building like a man without a care in the world. A walking contradiction. There were so many things to be worrying about but, while the mood was upon him, he was going to roll with it. It had been far too long since he felt so light and unburdened, it would be utterly dumb to refuse the feeling just because he knew better. Those nagging thoughts could wait. They would always be there, after all - this mood would not.

Boring errands, but he smiled the whole time. He smiled all the way to the bank and all the way back. The music in his car was lively and loud; the windows rolled down, soft breeze dancing in his hair. Care-free. And after picking up some deliciously unhealthy take-out food, he headed back to his apartment, smile still plastered on his face like a kid who faked sick and got out of school for the day.

Shit, he even _whistled_ as he climbed out of his car, pizza box in hand, and headed back to his apartment.

Katrina and the Waves said it best - he was _walking on sunshine._

But if Richie had known what was waiting for him back in his apartment - what would happen next - he would’ve spun full-circle and jumped right back into his car.

He may have been walking _on_ sunshine, but he was walking straight into a shit-storm. 


	7. HUMAN VOLCANOES

# CHAPTER 7 - HUMAN VOLCANOES

What Richie hadn’t realised, whilst he was spewing all this bullshit about how successful and happy he was after the final clown fight of Derry, was that he needed to cover his tracks. He needed to keep these lies _up,_ and be _careful._ He couldn’t just come up with all these things about how busy he was and, for example, lounge around all day like there was nothing to do. No calls to answer, no meetings to attend, no emails to respond to. He figured all that would come later. After all, they’d only had this conversation the previous day, and Eddie was only a temporary guest. Richie would think of these things _later…_ He didn’t need to think of them now, didn’t need any precautions. It was all early and fresh and Eddie hadn’t been with him for long.

The lack of precautions weren’t, however, Richie’s biggest mistake. His biggest mistake had been leaving Eddie alone in the apartment. Leaving Eddie alone - _bored -_ in the apartment.

If he’d had any sense, he would have invited Eddie to join him. He didn’t have to follow him into the stores again - he could have sat in the car with the radio and, hell, maybe Richie could have picked up a puzzle-book for him along the way.

He should have seen it coming, but Richie’s common sense had been blinded by Eddie’s presence. The truth was pretty simple: he was too giddy, too shocked and confused, too damn happy about this whole thing, and he was already getting ahead of himself.

“Honey! I’m home!” Richie yelled, kicking the door shut behind him. He dropped his car keys onto the tiny ledge by the front door, and wandered into the kitchen.

The pizza box in his hand was weighty and warm. The smell was intoxicating; all that greasy, terrible-for-you food that Eddie loathed, despite his fair share of the junk back in the day (yep, he would never refuse a slice, even if he had to lecture you about it first).

Before Richie had the chance to pop the box open and indulge in this delicious sin, he noticed that the kitchen appeared to be remarkably tidy. Certainly, it had been rather messy on his departure, and he called out to Eddie, still unaware of where he was or if he was even there at all, “Hey, I was only joking about the tidying up thing!”

There was no response and, still wired by all the chaotic shit suddenly happening in his usually-mundane life, Richie was on high alert and rushed from the kitchen. “Eddie? You in?”

He was in. He was in the living room, sat in his usual armchair.

But he hadn’t responded.

And why did he look like that?

“What’s up, man? Didn’t you hear me come in?”

“Oh, I heard you.” Eddie sounded just as strange as he looked. He didn’t even look up, not once, as Richie stood by the door.

“Everything okay?” Richie asked tentatively. He was quickly getting the idea that he should tread lightly. The look on Eddie’s face and the sound of his voice were _off;_ not the Eddie he had left behind earlier. And yet, there was a certain amount of familiarity to that sharp-edged tone to his words and the deep frown on his face, the crease of his eyebrows…

Eddie was pissed off.

_Royally._

The tiny angel on his right shoulder told him to leave. Just, turn around and go wait in the other room. The devil on his left shoulder prompted Richie to ask more questions. _Get to the bottom of this, will ya, Rich?_

Well. It was just too bad that he’d always had more in common with that pesky devil that resided on his left side. He cleared his throat and said, “looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The worst thing he could have said, obviously. Eddie just about exploded. The only thing missing was hot lava pouring from his mouth, or maybe shooting from the top of his head. It was suddenly Pompeii in Richie’s living room.

“Shut the fuck up, Richie. I’m fed up of these dumb ghost jokes.” Eddie stood up now. He spoke with his hands, the same way he always had when he was a kid and mega stressed. “They’re getting real fucking tedious and do you know what? They’re not even _funny._ Now I can see why you don’t write your own material.”

Richie was frozen by the door, mouth agape at Eddie’s sudden outburst. Usually he’d find this whole thing to be a riot. He loved winding Eddie up - always had! But he didn’t quite get this one. He was lost. “Okay, I get it. The ghost jokes are poor taste. What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Eddie retorted. He ran a hand through his hair. Same old Eddie, same old mannerisms. The same dead as he was alive. “I don’t know, Richie, I’m just a little pissed off that you lied to me. Several times. About several things.”

“Huh?” He was dumbfounded. Thoughts did not reach him with any cohesion at this time. BRAIN CLOSED, COME BACK LATER.

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“This big thing about how busy you’ve been lately and how successful all your work is?” Eddie had one hand on his hip, and Richie was feeling utterly scrutinised by his piercing gaze. “You even write your own material now, don’t you? Oh, and, even better, you’re always talking to the others. Ben, Bev, Mike, Bill. You _do_ remember who they are, don’t you?” There was a brief pause in which Richie said nothing in response. “Need I go on?”

“No.”

“Good.” Eddie scoffed. “I wouldn’t even be so angry if you didn’t fucking lie about it all so easily. I mean, why lie to me? Is there anything else you’re hiding? Any clue, perhaps, as to why I’m stuck here with you?”

Eddie’s words were biting and yes, Richie deserved them. He was wounded, of course, but he knew that Eddie had every right to be upset. He had lied, and had done so with such spectacular zeal it was excruciatingly cringe-worthy to be caught out and confronted about it. Eddie was, Richie supposed, likely to be upset that he had kept these things from him at such a time as this, too. Eddie was dead, had somehow magically returned, and Richie couldn’t even be honest with him? It was a kick in the teeth for Eddie. Especially since they were in this together. They were all each other had. Eddie had to depend on Richie to help him figure all this afterlife stuff out and here he was, lying about the most basic things.

But, ultimately, they were best friends.

Whether they had spent the last twenty-seven years apart or together, they were best friends. They were bound by something bigger and more powerful than _memory._ It didn’t even matter that they had forgotten to remember one another, because as soon as they had remembered, everything had clicked back into place. As though nothing had changed between them. Boom. Eddie and Richie, Richie and Eddie. Best friends.

Friends don’t lie.

Richie had.

And it still counted. Even at their age, and even with a gap of nearly thirty years apart, and even now that Eddie was dead and haunting him. It counted. Because their bond exceeded everything else. It was more powerful than IT. More powerful than the Turtle (and what or who was the Turtle again?). Their bond was an unstoppable force, and lying, as simple or as harmless as it may seem to the outsider, crossed a line that they never spoke about, never needed to speak about, but knew existed.

“I’m sorry,” Richie offered, feeling pathetic.

“You lied about being in touch with the others.”

“I didn’t. I am in touch.”

“Barely.”

Richie was searching his mind for anything to say; any reason or justification for his lack of reliability as a _good friend._ He really had been neglecting the Losers, but he had been neglecting himself, and with that being said, how could he be decent for anybody else?

It was at this point that another thought came to Richie. He stiffened slightly, and asked: “Wait, how do you even know all this?”

It was Eddie’s turn to go quiet. It was also, it seemed, his turn to look ashamed.

“Well?” Richie prompted. He could make an educated guess. He supposed, in the back of his mind somewhere, he already knew - but he wanted Eddie to say it.

“Don’t ‘well’ me,” Eddie snapped. “I read your emails, okay?”

“Eddie.”

“And your texts,” he confessed with heavy reluctance present in his voice.

“Why the fuck would you d-”

“I know it sounds bad.” Eddie cut in quickly, as though he was about to justify himself. But he didn’t do that. Instead, he flipped it and said, “Anyway, why are you ignoring them?”

“I’m not _ignoring_ them,” Richie quipped, incredulity prevalent in his voice.

Eddie went off, back to defending himself. “Besides, I didn’t intentionally read your emails. I was bored so I sat at your computer and I looked you up.”

“You looked me up?” He sounded flattered, a little off-key within this context, and Eddie glared at him until he fell back in his place.

“I just wanted to see some videos or something.” Eddie frowned. “Instead, a bunch of articles came up talking about you taking a break or some shit and, naturally-” he emphasised this last word, as though anybody else in the world would have done the same thing, “-I was tempted to do some digging.”

“Some digging? You couldn’t have just waited an hour or so until I got home so you could ask me yourself?”

“And would you have told me the truth?”

Richie groaned, loud and deliberate. He didn’t bother to answer the question because they both knew the answer. He wasn’t a liar, though. In the grand, bigger scheme of things. They had been white-lies, so as to please and relieve Eddie. What should he have said instead? That he was depressed after Eddie passing, so much so he couldn’t even work a whole year later? That wouldn’t sit right with Eddie and rightly so. He would have questions: _why did the passing of someone you had forgotten for nearly thirty years cause such an upheaval to your personal and professional life? Why hadn’t you moved on, like the rest of them had managed to? Why only you?_

“See.” Eddie said, sounding pleased with himself. “I knew I had to look for myself. I saw you were signed in to your emails, so I just had a brief look.”

“Which emails?” Richie felt like a powerless child, watching his lies unwind before him.

It turns out Eddie had seen the countless messages sent, and mostly unread, from Richie’s despairing manager. Emails that mostly read as pleas to get in touch, more than anything else. Some, Eddie revealed, had also contained the pressing question of whether Richie would ever step onto a stage again. Personally, Richie hadn’t opened those emails, but if he had, he’d have had a lot to think about.

But the emails weren’t satisfying enough for Eddie. Equipped with this new information from articles and the innumerable emails from his manager, Eddie just had to know more. So, having noticed Richie had forgotten to take his cell phone with him, and being the nosy snoop that he is, Eddie perused the messages (or lack thereof) between Richie and the Losers. Eddie justified this by explaining that he was looking to see if Richie had told them why he hadn’t been working, but was horrified to find that most of the messages received on Richie’s end had gone unanswered. And, Eddie said, the ones he did choose to respond to consisted of vague replies at best.

“I can’t fucking believe you went through my phone.” That was the best Richie had to offer, because he knew Eddie was right in being angry about his lack of contact with their friends. After everything they had been through together, a couple of messages throughout the week was surely not too much to ask for.

“Shouldn’t that be the least of your concerns right now?” Eddie shot back, but some guilt was evident there.

“I thought I could trust you enough to leave you alone in my apartment.”

“Trust? You wanna talk about trust after you lied about everything?”

“I didn’t lie about everything.” Richie said, stern. “Honestly, I don’t understand why you’re so upset. So, I haven’t been working much, alright? I admit it. Sue me. My apologies if I’m somewhat traumatised by everything that happened in Derry.” He swallowed. “Besides, it’s my career, my life. Why are you getting so defensive about it?”

“It’s not just your work! I’m mostly pissed off that you lied about speaking to the others when, in actuality, you’ve been ignoring them.”

“I haven’t been ignoring them. I don’t always feel like replying. That’s all there is to it.”

Eddie paused, allowing a moment of deafening silence. “Well,” he began, voice low, “I’m glad you have the luxury of deciding when you do or don’t feel like keeping in touch with our friends.”

Richie understood Eddie’s anger immediately, but before he could apologise or say anything to potentially drown out the growing fire, Eddie added: “But as I said, it’s the mere fact that you lied to me in the first place, Richie. I thought we were well past that. Why did you lie?”

“Because,” Richie pushed a hand through his hair and breathed deeply. “I’m struggling.”

“No shit.” Eddie said, but his voice was softer.

* * *

When things had calmed, Richie excused himself and went to the bathroom.

He placed his glasses by the window and splashed his face with cold water over the sink.

Perhaps what had happened had been an overreaction, though he wouldn’t suggest or imply this to Eddie.

Eddie was on edge. Both of them were. Yes, Richie had lied and he shouldn’t have, but he figured Eddie would be less pissed about Richie’s lack of messaging and lack of working if he was still alive, working his dull job in New York and living the life a married man his age lives. Whatever kind of life that is. But instead, he was dead and stuck here, trying to fathom what the fuck was going on, with Richie the only person he could depend on. Eddie had always been wound tightly, and was probably wound even tighter in his current predicament. Richie had lied and el-snapo! It was as quick and obvious as a click of the fingers.

_But maybe that isn’t fair,_ Richie thought to himself as he studied his blurry reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Maybe there was some weight to Eddie’s exasperation of it all. Maybe Richie should have just been open and honest and then, there was that other thing… that small, insignificant detail that was Richie’s privilege of life. He was still alive and he was wasting it.

Richie had seen the question in Eddie’s eyes. He didn’t have to say it.

_Did I really die for this?_

Most would say it was an accident but Eddie’s death seemed more of a sacrifice. The others were putting their lives to good use. They were happy and successful and deliberately breathing. Richie was floating along. Like a ghost. Eddie had more life to him than Richie had.

Perhaps they ought to switch places.

Given the chance, Richie knew that Eddie would be thriving. Just the other day, Eddie had practically admitted that he had merely _settled_ for his life with Myra. If he was alive now, would he have uprooted his whole life and everything he knew, to start fresh and make the most of his second shot at it?

Richie believed so. It would have taken guts but in the end, Eddie proved he had guts - and then some.

It was Richie who had told him _you’re braver than you think_. Richie had _known_ it, because he had seen all the shit Eddie was capable of surviving. When Eddie thought he had killed It, there was a look of indescribable relief and amazement across his face and Richie could tell, in that moment, that Eddie had finally discovered just how brave he was.

Yeah. He would have left Derry and made a better life for himself.

Vacations with the Losers. A job a little less soul-crushing - unless he really did love what he did. Richie never really had the chance to find out. Perhaps Eddie would have been open to the idea that not everything new or exciting out there would kill or harm him. Maybe - just maybe - he would have even found _the one._

Richie, meanwhile, was merely killing time and wasting away. He supposed that, from an outsider’s perspective, he may even seem content with it, too.

It was no wonder Eddie was pissed.

Stan died. Eddie died. It had finally been destroyed.

And now, Richie spent his days moping around an empty apartment feeling sorry for himself.

It wasn’t good enough. Richie, at least, owed Eddie an explanation.

* * *

Eddie was sat in the kitchen.

A freshly made drink sat on the table in front of him and Richie knew it was for him.

Delaying the inevitable conversation at the kitchen table, Richie flipped open the box that he’d left on the counter and stared at the cold pizza inside. He wasn’t hungry but he scooped a slice up anyway and took a single bite from it.

It was beyond cold. It was practically frozen. He didn’t mind cold pizza, but the food felt fraudulent in his mouth now and he swallowed it quickly, just to be rid of it. No, he really wasn’t hungry any more.

When Richie approached the table, Eddie made an attempt to look disinterested, or vaguely unaware of his presence, though a look of disdain was clear on his face, so Richie knew he’d watched him take a bite from the stale pizza.

Richie knew that Eddie was trying hard to put him at ease in his own peculiar way. Richie had admitted that he was struggling and the two of them knew that an elaboration on the topic was imminent, but Eddie also knew that Richie wasn’t entirely comfortable with this certitude.

That’s why Eddie had prepared a warm drink in Richie’s absence. Warm drinks solved everything, right? Warm drinks were necessary when talking about a break-up, or dealing with grief, or opening up about something very personal. Though, Richie decided, he could use something stronger. And it was also why Eddie was sat at the table now, looking very nonchalant about it all, as though he had no idea Richie would walk in, take a seat, and spill all.

It wasn’t very comforting, but Richie supposed it was better than Eddie playing the psychiatrist, a clipboard in hand, tissues on stand-by, a _nd how does that make you feel?_

He sighed and pulled out the seat across the table. “Déjà vu,” he said as he wrapped his hands around the hot mug. It was only a few days ago they’d done something similar. Except, at that point in time, Eddie had made himself a drink too, reluctant to exaggerate the fact that he was a corpse and no longer in need of silly things like hydration.

“Yeah,” Eddie offered a smile and although it was brief and contemplative, Richie could tell the anger had melted away now.

“So.” He fidgeted, not really knowing where to start. Perhaps he ought to just plough through it. Kill the lights, position the spotlight and reel off each and every way he felt miserable and dead inside. Perhaps a standing ovation would be waiting for him at the end. Those words would, after all, be the most original and authentic lines that had left his mouth in quite some time.

An awkwardness hung in the air, suspended around them. Richie wanted, more than anything, to abracadabra himself into thin air and never return but, despite his flair for showbiz, magic had never been his vocation. A part of him now wished that Eddie _would_ take on the role of psychiatrist, lead him to the couch, pull up a chair by his side and start asking all of the difficult questions.

Either way, the conversation wouldn’t be pretty.

“You’ve been struggling,” Eddie stated out of nowhere. It seemed he had noticed Richie trip and fall over the cliff’s edge, and now he bent and offered a rescuing hand.

“Yes,” Richie confirmed, feeling suddenly very microscopically small. He had never been good at this.

“It makes sense.” Eddie looked at him with kind eyes now. Richie was relieved to see them. “It’s not every day you have to fight a powerful supernatural entity.”

Richie smiled at Eddie’s attempt at making light of the situation. “You’re right about that,” he said. “Now can you see why I’ve been reluctant to talk to a therapist?”

Eddie laughed, then sobered up. “I know it’s been hard for you. That’s only one reason it’s so important to keep in touch with the others. They _get_ it. You need them, Rich, and they need you.”

“But I need you, too.” He blurted out, before it could slip through the very few filters between his brain and his voice.

Eddie smiled again, sadly, but said nothing.

“I’m not over it, Eds.” Richie whispered.

“I know. It’s not something you can just forget about easily.” Eddie began. He shifted in his chair. “What we had to go through with Pen-” he paused, adjusted himself, “-that fucking clown, is not something that can-”

“No,” Richie stopped him. “I know what you’re about to say and you’re right. It’s all so fucked up and beyond insane. But I’ve practically accepted it now. I don’t know why it happened to us, but it did, and it was all real. The clown, the missing kids, everything. It wasn’t fair that it happened but I know that it did and I’ve accepted that now because it’s over - once and for all.” He paused for just a moment, half-expecting Eddie to say something, but when he was greeted with silence, he continued. “I don’t know how anyone can move on from something so indescribably _fucked,_ but I know I can. I’d be working right now if I could, Eddie. There’s nothing I’d love more than to be on stage telling stupid jokes and there’s nothing I’d love more than to actually appreciate every fucking day of my life after everything that happened to us. But I can’t. Because, although I can accept all of that shit, I can’t accept what happened to you. I’m not over _you._ ”

It was Pompeii in Richie’s kitchen now. His words flowed like lava, entirely beyond his control, and covered every surface; fast and suffocating and unstoppable. No thought was given to the consequences.

He would pick through the wreckage, later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a little while since my last update but I hope you enjoyed this chapter! More to come soon. :)


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